The Valley of Clouds

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          I’m suspended above an unimaginably huge chasm, a cleft in the earth both wide and deep, a place of both brightness and shadow. This rope is far, far longer than I had ever imagined, stretched tightly and parallel to the earth. My feet dangle above an overtly alarming space; the broad floor of this valley must be thousands of feet below. And how far is it to the other side? To what, I wonder, is this rope attached at its end? My hands are large for my physical size, my arms are strong, but surely by now, the spiral-twisted strands of a thick rope are embedded permanently in my palms. And sometimes I do mind the ache in my shoulders, the straining of my muscles. Hand over hand, taking one new grip after another, slowly I progress. From time to time I stop, turn about with careful effort, and look back. I can no longer see how far the rope extends as it vanishes into the distance behind me. I can barely recall the point from which I began. I’ve been out here, now, for months. No. Years. It most definitely has been years.
          It’s far more than symbolism. I’m actually where I’ve said. Figuratively, of course, and in no small way, literally. I dare not let go; I live on this rope. I eat, sleep, breathe and may also die, on this rope. It was my choice to come out here. I took a deep breath, and I began.
          All of my life, this had been coming. So much for the prescience I’ve sometimes claimed, I never saw it until it arrived. I should have known there was a reason behind the workouts when I started them, and for once, was able to stick to them. I’d been pushing weights, all I could muster, until my chest ached and my heart pounded. I thought it might be the way I would die. But I would not stop and I will never stop. Because if I must die, it’s the way it should happen.
           The day I left the safety of solid earth, I knew it would be a long trip. I didn’t know if I could make it across. But, then as now, I was not at all prepared to face my mortality. If I’m not immortal, I just don’t see it, and that’s the truth. But I don’t know if I’ve reached the halfway point, or if I’ve passed it. Or if I’m even capable of completing this journey.
           Like any endeavor, I know why I started. On the other side, there is sure, sweet release. There’s something definable there, a final destination that must be reached. I will know exactly how Winston Churchill felt, hours before he addressed his nation for the first time about the realities of war.
          I also suspect there’s someone waiting, someone I’ve missed for ever so long.
          It’s so strange that I don’t know who that someone is. And it’s possible there is no one; but I think that’s human nature. If we want something badly enough, we begin to believe it exists. Thus we never really know if something ethereal has changed state. Trust me, it can and it does happen.
           I’ve named this place above which I’m suspended, and it’s my title for this short piece. I think it’s also human nature to give a name to any place where so much time has been spent. And it fits; the reality of this place to me is stark. Earth is an amazingly beautiful planet, and the valley below may be the most attractive place upon it. The weather here changes, as does the time of day or night. The silvery ribbon of river winding far below my feet is often shrouded in mist. The mist rises beneath the warming rays of the morning sun until it shrouds me; and from here it advances to join the billows of clouds, still higher above. Of course, it rains, and I get wet. Snow collects on my head and on my shoulders. It gets cold out here at night, and in summer, it gets hot. But I’m still here. I manage it with a “second” wind drawn from the depths of my soul, a deepened gulp of new strength, gratefully taken hundreds of times. Daily I’m reminded that I should have changed my work boots before I ventured out, but one cannot go back to change the place from where one began. At least the boots keep my feet warm, and the high-tops protect my ankles when I boost them over the rope, to get some sleep. When I do, I awaken to the reality known to everyone else.
          When the air is clear, I swear I can see for hundreds of miles in any direction. And life has not slowed in any way because of this rope. My best work has come from it. The further I progress, the better it gets. And then, there’s the music, always with me. Fault me for it if you wish, I couldn’t stop it if I tried. From here, entire magnificent symphonies have been composed and then forgotten, not a note if it written, or otherwise retained for posterity.
          The music happens to be the only doubt I’ve ever had about the rightness of the objective at the end of this rope. It’s a serious doubt. But without doubt there would be no life at all. Without doubt, there would be no questioning, and thus, no resolution. I cannot speak for anyone else, but the necessity of the process seems obvious to me. And who knows. Perhaps I am immortal after all, and that journey will be the next rope. Ha, that's doubtful.
          Because it’s only a rope, there is no safety harness involved, nor is there a net. But immortal or not, completed or not, this was a journey upon which I had to embark.
          I had no choice whatsoever.
          There is no turning back.



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The Power of Slide

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“Let it slide.”

Ever heard that line? Admittedly it has its downside, and that’s not an intentional pun. But without Slide, life would be just about intolerable. The trick is to use it judiciously. I freely admit, I’m still working on it, and I always will be...because it’s a dynamic term, applicable in very many ways and in so many situations. Misused, it’s just another way to procrastinate. But if it’s used well, it’s extremely advantageous.

Slide is tolerance. Let’s face it, everybody makes mistakes. No two people are always in sync with their thoughts and intentions, although some are better with that than others. Being out of sync with the feelings of another is no crime, but how often does it affect a relationship? If you asked me, I would say, continuously. My head doesn’t seem to work like anyone else’s. So if a significant other says something that sounds like it’s stupid, or maybe it’s vulgar, or even obnoxious or damaging, do you let it slide? Can you? Should you? Your decision will be based on how important the person is to you, for your own sake, keep that in mind. It will depend on the frequency of such occurrences. On the severity of the apparent infraction. Unfortunately, some of us have no tolerance at all for a misstep or a misspeak. But sometimes, people do screw up. Slide is not necessarily forgiveness, it’s somewhat tentative coolness. “Okay I’m just gonna let that slide.” A bit of advice...if you hear that as a response, take it seriously. Oh and by the way? Everyone is different, whether that difference is in appearance, demeanor or ethnicity. Slide should be on full-automatic for that, to your great advantage. In those cases, it may have less than nothing to do with any kind of personal relationship.

Slide makes it easier to re-group. Even some chickens know this. A flock of chickens is just about the most excitable assemblage on earth. I’ve kept chickens, you can come to feed and water them at the same times every day, and still, they’ll freak out when you enter their pen to do it. But they’ll re-group, settle down, and then mob the feeder. You’re forgiven, it’s time to eat. And there are always a few of the birds who hang out on the outskirts, placid and cool, because they aren’t as excitable as the rest. They’ll be the first ones to the feeder. Be cool. Is that project daunting? Set a time to begin, and take a break. When you reach the point where you told yourself you would start, hit it hard...but until then, you’re sliding. Be careful with this one. Your employer may not know how to let anything slide. But if he or she does not understand the importance of mental attitude, again, the job can become just about intolerable. Some bosses never learn this. It’s unfortunate. Trying to see things from their perspective may allow you to let that slide, too. Good luck.

Slide makes re-evaluation possible. It’s the exact opposite of a knee-jerk reaction. Sometimes, the situation seems to call for packing a bag and getting the hell out, or reacting with anger, or worse. Whoa! Slide is a step back, a step away, but it isn’t burning bridges. It isn’t getting you arrested. It isn’t getting you fired. It isn’t escalation of any kind. It doesn’t take a hike, it takes a walk. It allows one to cool off. It eliminates, not postpones, but eliminates conflict. Think about that! And how many songs have been written about regrets? How many families have been decimated by quick decisions? Think about the position from which you would prefer to re-evaluate. Unemployment? Alone, in a motel room? In a cell? Brother, sister! Slide. When you have to take action, at least know that it’s necessary.

By now it’s plain that this could go on forever. However when I sit down to write something, I never, ever just rip it off. I walk away, I walk circles, I think about it. I look things up. I re-word everything, as seems appropriate. I don’t publish it before it has aged a while. I re-read after my perspective has had a chance to change.

I’m not the best slider in the world. I’ve messed it up at least as much as I haven’t; but I’ve learned from it. At this point in time, I’m letting more slide than I should be. I consider it to be an adjustment. And it allows me to write.

My final bit of advice on the topic will be straightforward, and there's some urgency in it: Allow yourself to live. Take time, so that it doesn’t take you.

Slide.


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A Story Writes You

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All this time I had believed that a writer writes stories. How silly is that? It just happens to be where I am at this moment. Looking backward as I've done at the pieces I've completed, I can see it wasn't me inventing tales. If it had been, all of them would have been exceedingly boring. Insults accepted later, hear me out.

Sometimes I thought I had a story to tell. But in fact, happenings that revealed themselves as something quite different later on in the story, were unplanned. That must be what's meant by stories writing themselves. It can take on a life of its own while in process. In fact, though, each of these have real substance in the form of occurrences that actually took place, or that might have in some surreal existence, based on some real experience.

There have been things I've written that took shape, but that had no planned ending. In those rare cases I had to find an ending that would hopefully satisfy readers, releasing them from the tale to return to their personal lives and pursuits. However in most cases there's somewhere I want to go with an idea, before I begin. I have a character, I have a setting, I have a point. I may even have an ending. Now the objective is to seize the attention of the reader, give him something to care about, and hold his attention while I wrap him personally into the scenery. Then, I will push him off of the edge of a cliff. He will not survive unless he gets my point before he hits the rocks.

That's all a pile of crap, of course. I'm not that good. In fact, when I write something it's because Icare about it. I care about the limitations of careless, lazy, unthinking, robotic humanity. I care about the natural world, and everything in it. I care about the majesty of the universe, what our place as a species could be rather than what it seems likely it will be. Like, stop hurting each other, okay? Listen to Bill and Ted, and be excellent to each other. And I care about humor, because it helps to preserve my, 'um, sanity. “How are you today?”

“Hahahahahaaaa, ssstable!”

Everything's relative.

Writers of fiction are chicken. We're unwilling to come right out and say what we think, because people might hate us for it. If they hate us, there's no way we'll ever get paid. We're journalists who are unwilling to do the homework to write articles using sound, provable facts. If it's plausible, more or less, it's good stuff. If we know something or just believe something, we can use it, 'cuz it's fiction.

I've reviewed the things I've written from time to time, because it helps me to see just a little bit better how they might impact a reader who hasn't already seen them. Thanks to a crappy memory, I can do that. But that's not what caused this little piece to be written. What did? I just watched a video that takes you to the places from which J.R.R. Tolkien probably got his inspirations for his epic series of books. He definitely had some real points to make, and he assembled the materials from a lifetime of experiences. A fantastic imagination took over.

And so I have one more thing for which I could thank him. If his works defined him,
then my own writing may be defining me.

I can live with that.

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The Book Sale

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I’m wondering if I can successfully tie a simple community book sale to a veritable lightning strike. Today is just an ordinary day, one on which the local public library is holding a semiannual fundraising event. A year ago the same thing was happening, on a very similar fall day. I remember it well; I’ve decided there are no days when one's life cannot drastically and unexpectedly change. Further, one never knows when one’s path is about to be set.

On that beautiful day one year ago, I had several Saturday morning errands to run. I needed gasoline for the mowers, to make a stop at the bank and to pick up a few items at the store. The usual short-cut I take happens to be a less-traveled side street, and then through the parking lot of the local public library. On the way through, though, I couldn’t miss the banner over the entry walkway of the library. “Book Sale Today” it proclaimed, in large, red, hand-painted letters. “Hm,” I thought, “I haven't been to a book sale in years.” I didn’t consider stopping, either, and went straight on to the bank.

However on my way back, I thought maybe I should. In years past I'd watched for these book sales, and Saturday has always been the last and the busiest day. The best choices would likely be gone, and the prices would be halved to try to clear out as many of the donated books as they could. As I'm seldom in town during the week, Saturday was generally the only day I'd ever been able to go and look at what they had, anyway. I decided to stop, if only for old time's sake. It had always been with the family before, so it would seem different.

Entering the library, I realized it had been so long since I'd been there that I didn't even remember where, exactly they held the sale. I inquired at the desk, and then of course I remembered. Through the green door and downstairs to the basement. Down I went, past the childrens' story room and childrens' books section. And there it was, in a musty, squarish room with pastel-green block walls, the books arranged on tables and chairs and even stacked on the floor, and with incomplete book sets displayed in cardboard boxes. They could have sold books for another full week at least, although the room was nearly full of browsing people.

I ran into an old friend there whom I hadn't seen for at least a decade, so we shook hands and carried on a brief conversation. Then I looked around, and at first, nothing caught my eye. I didn’t know if my browsing skills had atrophied that badly or if, in fact the magic was gone. I was about to leave when I spotted a book on the historical progression of mechanical devices. That looked interesting, so I picked it up. Then I noticed there were more novels than anything else. At last it occurred to me that here was an opportunity to pick up an inexpensive novel or two, as examples of successful works. I'm never too old or too far along to learn at least something.

So after a few more minutes of browsing, I selected a paperback copy of Seabiscuit by Laura Hillenbrand, because it was marked “#1 New York Times Bestseller,” and James Herriot's All Things Bright and Beautiful. I'd expected that like everything else, the prices would be three to five times higher than the last time I'd been there, so I had a twenty dollar bill ready. But for some reason, the things that are most worthwhile are sometimes the least-supported, and the presumed values were still far too low. The half-off price totaled thirty-eight cents. I donated a dollar and felt embarrassed. If I'd had a five or even a ten, I'd have given that to the attendant.

Call me a rebel, but I sometimes read books from the middle toward both ends when I'm curious. When I got to my car, I opened James Herriot's book and started to read. It was something about veterinary work, and I had opened to an engaging story about saving the life of a bull calf that later grew up and almost took the vet's life. I closed the book and headed for home. When I got there, I'd been thinking about the power of a good opening to a story, but even more importantly, a strong ending. So before I went on to my next task, I opened the back of the book, and on the very last page I read:

“The shops were still closed and nothing stirred in the market place. As we left I turned and looked back at the cobbled square with the old clock tower and the row of irregular roofs with the green fells quiet and peaceful behind, and it seemed that I was losing something forever.

I wish I had known then that it was not the end of everything. I wish I had known that it
was only the beginning.”

I'm afraid I can't quite explain how that affected me. I will never forget the moment; for the first time, I knew I would be writing for the rest of my life. For the first time, I realized what power I have at my fingertips when I do. For the first time, I did not doubt that my writing would be read.



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Photo credit: ~Brenda-Starr~ / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND

A Girl by the Road

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There’s a young girl outside, standing by the road.

I often revisit the dusty roads of my memories; once in a while, it’s a purposeful journey. More often, however, a wandering trek through the passageways of my experience comes without necessarily any approval from me, or any real intent. Such has been the unfortunate case, once again. So much for my peace, which admittedly has been disturbed. It comes, and on occasion, it goes.

But seemingly, it took so little; this time it’s just a girl who is standing by the road. In her early teens, hands clasped behind her back, head tipped downward, watching her bare feet as she pushes pebbles and grasps at the stunted roadside dandelions with her toes. And every once in a while she steals a furtive look at the long stretch of country road that runs by both her home and mine, peering one direction and then the other, but favoring just one. She’s looking for someone, no doubt a boy of about the same age whom I’ve seen before, when he’s come to call. She has been out there for a while now, occasionally stepping inside, but each time, returning to the side of the road before many minutes have passed.

Could there be a reason, I wonder, why simply observing someone whose heartstrings are being tugged, pulls in turn on mine? After all, men are raised to be comparatively insensitive. That’s an opinion, backed by a tsunami of fact. Strength is expected of us, but then we are also blamed for it. Ours is the gender expected to train and to take up arms, to leave behind all that we’ve lived and believed, and to kill our fellow man. Circumstances and the realities of violent conflict and war sometimes necessitate it. And then, if we have survived and we get to come home, we are expected to leave all of those behaviors behind and to function like all other civilized persons. But it doesn’t take a war; the conflict might have been on the street. Those of us who have not seen combat must live and work and compete with those who have. And in either case we are dysfunctional if we cannot nurture our children, serve as loving spouses and do what’s right for our families. Sensitivity does have its place, after all. I’m only being sensitive.

Or maybe it’s something else.

Memory can be a deeply cruel thing, and despite my age, I am both blessed and cursed with an extremely vivid memory. I recall as if it was only moments ago, the first time I experienced the sensation of being struck in the face by an older boy who was intent on a fistfight. I remember that he wanted the change in my pocket, and that he took it. I recall the resultant rage and resolve that led to my learning to deliver the same, how to clench a fist and how not to, and discovering that I had the strength and speed to compete. As long as the other kid wasn’t too big, of course. I have similar memories I am unwilling to share, but such things as those are just one side of the coin.

The other side is the one revisited this evening. As a young man, I quickly learned that I am no less vulnerable to attachment and to pain than members of the opposite sex. I’ve been left behind. I have made unpleasant but, I thought, necessary choices and thus, delivered the same. While perhaps an unavoidable part of life, it can be and has sometimes been unpleasant. That’s putting it quite mildly.

I am no longer a young man. I am not in a position to counsel the young girl whose roadside vigil has caused me to sit down to write. And even if I happened to be her father, I’m not sure I would try to tell her anything. Some things have to be learned the hard way. One would hope that sooner or later, the hard lessons would stop coming. But they don’t. In fact, we don’t learn such things very well at all.

For in my own way, I have been by the side of the road, and more than once. I have experienced the disappointment she is presently feeling. I’ve also been in the place of the young man who has not appeared. He’s made a decision I’ve had to make, and would very much prefer never to have to repeat. It seems to be bothering me, far more than it should.

On most evenings in this pastoral valley, the five-toned horn of a passing train, blaring through the haze of the river and echoing through vine-covered trees, is melodious and welcome music to the ears. But tonight its descending wail is plaintive and mournful, the evening air, damp and sullen. I try to tell myself that a life without regret would be no life at all. I try to tell myself, it’s just that I’ve opened my heart to emotion, an effort to help me to write. If that’s all it is, I’ve done a terrific job of it.

Darkness will fall shortly. She may as well go inside and try to make herself busy at something, even though I know it won’t help.

He isn’t coming.


It comes without warning. I whisper softly.
Father. Please forgive me.


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Snowflake

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Make no mistake, this is a genuine bit of writing. That said, my opening will read a little like an ad. That’s because I want to take an opportunity, just one, to tell the people who have been coming here to read my blog that I also have a website, ad and spam-free and loaded with my short stories, all downloadable, free reading.. BenTrayne.com is the url. I have a lot more effort in those writings than in this blog, and for some strange reason, the blog is getting more hits than my site. Bookmark it. Enjoy. Pass it on.

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Snowflake is a skunk. A real, wild creature who visits my back porch nightly to feast on the cat food my outdoor pets haven’t eaten. Snowflake is admittedly only half-white, but she’s plainly deserving of the name, because she’s a real sweetheart. Oh, she’s dangerous, like all healthy skunks. But she’s not aggressive like some are, luckily, and I can tell she likes me. I’m sure she believes I put that food out for her, and in a way, I do. I could easily bring it all inside before darkness falls, and I’m quite sure it would save me money, as well as the time I currently spend scrubbing the feed dishes each morning. But the fact that she is “loaded” at all times is the reason the photo I will post at the end, isn’t a better one. A man’s got to know his limitations.

That last line came from a Dirty Harry movie. I don’t remember which one.

I came to know that Snowflake was non-aggressive because of a cigarette. It was many months ago, she was much smaller, and I was still a smoker. I have never smoked indoors, in fair weather or foul, so I had donned a jacket and had parked myself in a comfortable chair on my back porch, just to have a cigarette.

Long-time smokers are experienced. We know how to light up on windy days by facing into the wind rather than turning our backs to it. It’s the only way cupped hands will shield a match. We know that even if you tear the tobacco from the filter when you’re finished, pocketing the filter is a no-no. It will stink as bad as the whole butt. We also know that lighting up while driving is roughly equivalent to texting and driving, and that opens up a myriad of other ways smoking can kill you.

But few of us have been cornered on their back porch by a skunk because of a cigarette. I think Snowflake’s appearance was the first thing that made me actually consider quitting. I thought she just hadn’t seen that I was sitting there, within six feet of her, as she appeared and clambered up onto the bench where the cat dishes were lined up. It was chilly out, and immediately the cold seemed to soak right into my bones. I felt about the same as if a big rattlesnake had just slithered up and coiled itself at my feet.

“Way to go, slick,” I thought. “How the hell are you gonna get out of this one?”

After all, six feet is still, six feet. To get to the door I would have been within two or three feet. I would have had to get closer just to escape to the great outdoors beyond the porch. I figured that as soon as she realized I was there, it would be all over. I froze.

But lo and behold, she'd known I was sitting there all along. As she finished scarfing up all of the dry food nuggets, she raised her nose in the air while looking right at me, and she appeared to be sniffing. A new chill passed through me as she turned her back, and I prepared to make a leap and a run for it. But it would have been for naught, because she had only turned to leave. She climbed back down from the bench and made her way off toward the woods.

Since that night, I’ve been on the back porch while Snowflake was there, many times. I talk to her, and she looks up at me while she’s eating. It’s a win-win situation, because she will, in fact, drive away competing possums with her only weapon. The possums are afraid of me, and they’ll leave if I step outside, thus, she doesn’t stink up the area to secure her food supply.

I’m probably a distant relative of the first human to ever befriend a wolf, leading to the current variety of canine breeds. I’ve always taken chances this way, never mind the cigarette. Years ago I remember being the last guy outside at a wilderness camp, feeding marshmallows to black bears. Everyone else had gone inside and most were watching from a window. Tip your beer, toss a marshmallow. Marshmallow, beer. See how close they’ll come.

Okay, maybe it was the beer.

My whole point was, Snowflake gave me a chance. Perhaps she’d seen me putting the food out, and knew I was the source. Or maybe she was just young and inexperienced. Whatever the reason, she’s welcome here. I would never harm her, or try to trap her out. She and I have a fine friendship that will probably last, because we both know we aren’t dangerous to one another.

I think everyone should try that. Oh definitely, keep an eye out for yourself; but try exercising just a little bit of trust. Especially if you ever meet me.

It seems to work out fairly often.

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A Path to Peace

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Recovering peace, or achieving it as the case may be, can be simple or it can be almost insurmountably difficult. At the moment I’m entertaining the opinion that the difference between the two is a personal one. I say ‘at the moment’ because I reserve the right to change my opinion, which is part of my formula for reaching a state of internal peace. It also places me at variance with almost everyone except politicians, and in those cases, who knows what they really think, if in fact after years of waffling practice they are even capable of forming honest opinions of their own.

But as usual, I digress. The subject at hand is finding the path to peace, which admittedly has to be a personal one. That’s why my title begins with “A” instead of “The.”

The personal differences in each of us seem to dictate whether we can find peace if we want to, how difficult it will be to get there or even if it suits us to find it. I’ve known people who were abused as children, and some of those were abusers themselves. I’ve known people who were or are enablers or perpetrators of all sorts of destructive or self-destructive behaviors. As a former smoker of many years I can’t honestly say I’ve never been among those. Smoking is sometimes, but I’m sure not always, a form of death-wish. But the very first task at hand might be to examine one’s motivations for whatever one does that might qualify as abusive or destructive. Obviously the next step would be to find ways to mitigate the behaviors that offend one’s health or peace of mind. I’m not talking about anyone else’s health or peace of mind, but yours alone and specifically. For my part, I’ve found replacements for the habits I once believed were a necessary part of my existence. Supplements. Exercise. The occasional snack, underscore occasional, these have replaced tobacco for me. But here’s the key; I’ve done it because it suited me to do it, not because anyone was haranguing or forcing me to do it. If I decide to smoke, I will. I have chosen not to. It was my choice.

That’s what’s important.

What I believe I am expressing is the critical importance of suiting oneself, in most things. It probably won’t be possible to do better than most. There are roughly seven billion other people here too, there are also power structures and governments, not necessarily the same but all corrupt. We age. The prime of life comes and just as surely, leaves us. Being at peace with it certainly does not mean acceptance of all that comes on its own. And that’s why I chose to quit smoking, you see. It gave me an edge in the battle that was probably crucial.

Being at peace does not mean settling oneself with all that’s less than ideal. The effort to be prepared for anything that may come has to be balanced with some common sense. I do not plan to arm myself or to build an impregnable bomb shelter. A decent emergency food supply, however, makes sense to me. A generator seems like a good idea, and so on. And if I see an opportunity to right something that’s wrong, I will act swiftly to do so. I am not a man to be feared, but respected. If there’s anyone that doesn’t suit, that’s too bad.

I knew I was on the right track when on a nice Sunday afternoon I visited the local grocery store. I just needed a few things, I didn’t need a shopping cart. I was dressed as usual in comfortable jeans and a long sleeved shirt, work boots on my feet. As usual my hair was too long and no doubt, tousled. I’ve been told that my walk resembles the rolling gait of a pirate, and that’s probably true. My hands were in my pockets and I was smiling slightly while going about my business. If I was the sensitive type, the glare from an old woman that slammed into me as I turned a corner and into another aisle might have done some serious damage. She was dressed in her Sunday best, was probably just out of church, and her gray, perfectly-coiffed hair was heaped above heavy jowls that were intensely expressive of her infinite disapproval of me. Slightly behind her and to her left like an obedient puppy slouched her gaunt-looking husband, who was also well-dressed but decidedly not happy.

I couldn’t help it. It immediately struck me funny, and I laughed out loud. I’m pretty sure that if I’d been within reach she’d have taken a swing at me. I neither know nor care what she thought of me or exactly why she glared, but obviously I was too unkempt and too uncontrolled and probably, too happy to suit her. The woman looked like the mother of my ex-wife and was behaving just the same, although I’d never seen this person before at all. And as I said, at that moment, I knew I was on the right track.

It seems to me, bringing things into focus for oneself is the most important single thing to be done toward finding peace. At the end of the day, what you can handle is how it will be. It may be a little less or possibly even a little more than you want to handle, and then what you want comes into play, and that’s very important. Wherever you land on the board, it must be someplace where you can be satisfied. If you’re not single like I am, or wish not to be, consider this statement, which I believe with all my heart to be true: You cannot really be right for anyone at all if you aren’t right for yourself, whatever your circumstances.

When you are, you will be at peace.


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Dreams

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I’m really no different from you. Not at all.

Before I’m through, it’s possible you may want with all of your heart to believe that I am. But I am not. I could never begin to change that, even if it was what I wanted.

The struggle of daily pursuit of an ordinary living can easily lead one to believe that it’s all there is, or all that ever will be. To think that the mundane and the humdrum and the strife are one’s lot in life, and to wish it was just about anything otherwise. And so we seek various kinds of excitement, or pleasure, and any form of justification for our lives. We search, often in vain, to recapture lost passions from the ash-heaps of spent living. Relationships fade and die, often because we let them. Surely what we have always believed we deserve will appear in the next, or the next. We want money because, well, everyone does. Money is the source of power, and influence, surely security, why shouldn’t it be the root of happiness? But it isn’t. Neither is it the means of finding anything else you’ve ever sought. In fact it’s a waste.

And in fact, limits of every kind are self-imposed. Someone hangs a label on you and even you eventually believe what’s on that label. It was never so. You are and always will be, ever and precisely what you choose. If you believe you are strong, you are. If you believe you are weak, the same is true. If you stand straight, clench your fists, open your mind and feel the power of your own existence, you will handle whatever adversity may find you. If you whimper and cower and live in fear, you will die of it. It’s as simple as that.

Everyone has an opinion, here is mine, you can take it or leave it as you choose. I have lived before. I don’t know who I was or what I did or even if it was more than once. But I’ve found no other explanation for the things I understand or the things I see, whenever I choose to actually look. And I don’t think that’s anything special at all. Because I believe you have too.

If there is anything different about me, it may be that I’m aware. That after perhaps eons of existence, I am still amazed at the stark beauty and complexity of a flower, thrilled by the warmth of the sun on my face and the wind in my hair and the stars sparkling their brilliance throughout the nearly unimaginable depths of the firmament that surrounds this, my world. The trill of songbirds and the scream of a hawk and the roar of a lion, all are of equal beauty to me. Life!! Breath. Existence.

No amount of money can buy it.

No words could ever begin to describe it.

The greatest of all human artists could never hope to capture it.

And yet, it is yours. It is mine.

Let me ask you, do you have a lot? Do you have just a little? Do you even know?

Well I do. I am among the richest men on this planet. And what I have is not for sale. I have peace. If you’d like, you can have it too. It’s free.

“Fear this?” Give me a break. I fear nothing, certainly not death. I fear no one. My life is my own. 

 

And, I have dreams. The beautiful, the sweet, the astounding, the power of the universe, all of it is mine. It can be yours too, if you want it.

Seize it. Live it. Love it for all you can. Human emotion is the greatest power on earth.

And life is the greatest gift of all.

                                                  **********

Untitled

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The page stares back at me. It’s blank and white and expectant.
There are far too many rules. If I say it doesn’t need a title, then it doesn’t. Okay?

Just moments ago, as I stood outside alone in the cool night air, the breath of another fading summer drifting softly past, I wondered. Just how much does anyone know? About anything?

One year ago on another August night, I was also writing. Then as now, the sounds of thousands of countryside katydids kept me company in the enveloping darkness. Then as now, I sought to make descriptive sense of my surroundings. And since, many people have passed from this world, while many more have arrived.

I’ll never, ever forget the face of my youngest child looking up at me with widened, questioning eyes.

“Daddy? What was before?”

I looked down at him and asked for clarification. “Why, what do you mean? Before?”

“Before I was (here).”

I paused, stricken. Then I tried to understand further the nature of his query. After a few exchanges, and I wish I could recall exactly what I asked and how he answered, it became clear that he imagined there was no world in existence before he arrived. Yes, he was very young, barely beyond the point of learning to speak. I recall trying to explain to him that it was only he that was not here before, and I’ve often wished I had not. Because for all intents and purposes, there was no world for him, before his moment of arrival. I wish, in a way, he could have kept all of his beautiful innocence.

Many, many summer nights before that moment, my first child had been about the same age when a nineteen-year-old co-worker of mine was killed in an automobile accident. Though my co-worker was younger than I, he was a friend, and I was getting dressed a few days later to attend his funeral. I don’t remember what exactly was said, but for some reason I believed my little daughter was aware. In fact, death was a concept that had never crossed her mind.

“Daddy?” She looked up at me with the same cherubic expression I would eventually see again from my youngest. “I hope your friend gets better.”

I knelt, and I held her close. I wept, for the innocence I knew she would lose, and the one and only time I would do so for my friend.

Now I fold my arms and sit back in my chair, and stare once again at the page. In a way, it’s beginning to look like it has some life. The page is something like a life, too. It may or may not have a great beginning, but one hopes for a purposeful end and coherent existence. It’s like every page that may or may not hit the trash can.

So the question stands, the one I had when I sat down across from the blank page. One can live for a decade, or two, or ten. When it’s all said and done, how much does anyone actually know? In the course of a lifetime, we meet people, we learn to play the game, we parry and thrust and deliver barbs, and receive some. Sometimes we even fall in love, get married, have children. We decide what’s important and we live for it. We learn, and change our minds, and then we live for something else.

At long last, here’s my concern. Walk through a cemetery sometime. There’s where both you and I will be someday, too. I received a child’s question about that, once, as well, and I don’t wish to remember that one, but I do. But all of those people, a la Carl Sagan... “billions and billions” ...all gone. Oh, for certain, some of them left a mark, a few of those, indelible. Some changed the world for the better. But the great bulk of them? Not so much.

And the older I get, the more it becomes plain to me that I actually know very little. Oh, sure, to some extent I’ve learned to play the game. I have my beliefs, and things that I live for.

But what will I die for? And what have I done?

And how much, exactly, do I know? Practical things, useful, as it stands, only to myself.

Tonight I felt a grand hope, hope that the whispering breath of another fading summer would always be renewed by the passage of the other seasons.

Tonight, at least I knew that in this place, all nights in August are truly beautiful. I knew that katydids deserve to exist every summer, everywhere, and forever.

And I knew I was alone.

Survival Will Not Be Enough

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             Each day passes, most, very much like the one before it. One finds oneself repeating familiar motions just because they’re familiar, putting the toothbrush back into its holder the same way, doing things in a certain order that defies variation. I’m sure it’s more than just efficiency, it’s habit. I will do things this way because it’s the way I do them.
            When I eventually complete all of my usual morning tasks and head out for the daily commute, I’m well-aware of what I will soon face. Thousands of other drivers with their own individual habits and objectives are also going somewhere. Some are on vacation, others are already on the clock, moving a commercial load from point to point, and many more are doing the same as I am, going to work. We all have our own ways of doing that, too.
            And I wonder, what level of importance does anyone else place on how they do it? Does anyone else prefer an easy, pleasant drive? It surely doesn’t look that way. It’s a daily early-morning expression of impatience, aggression and selfishness. Yes ma’am I can see that you’re late. And excuse me, sir, I realize that reaching your destination is ever so much more important than my reaching mine. Pardon me for being here. I’m sorry, am I too slow? Ten miles over the speed limit isn’t enough to keep you off of my back bumper? Here, let me signal and pull off. There you go. Now, was that gesture really necessary? Oh I see, it took too long for me to get out of your way! I’ll do it more quickly tomorrow. Of course, that won’t suit your ass either.
             I tell myself as I wait for the opportunity to re-enter traffic, it was probably always this way. When I was a child my dad was usually driving, and then it was his job to deal with it. I was just a passenger. But I know that’s not true. Even in my own lifetime I’ve seen a change, and it’s worsened. I’ve reasoned, maybe it’s just because I’m older, and tiring of it.
            But without mentioning types or brands, take a look out there. There are many more high-end, extremely expensive vehicles on the road. There aren’t fewer high-speed drivers at the elevated fuel prices of today, there are more. The majority of drivers are also using phones. Only a very few are careful enough to pull off to use them.
            It’s a shockingly accurate reflection of changes everywhere, none of them good. It seems to me, very few people give a rats-ass whether the glaciers are melting and sea levels are rising, or that drinking water is being sold the way milk once was, while many don’t even have milk. That the cycle of wildlife worldwide is on a downward spiral, that government, business and financial institutions are becoming indistinguishable. That the utilities run the utility control entities, that graft and money make the rules.
            I’m sure it has nothing to do with the permanent concrete barriers between lanes that prevent migration of wild animals, as their bodies collect along them on the highway. What do we care? Cleaning them up creates jobs. Or with the cops lined up along the road to catch speeders in road-construction areas that haven’t been active for a week. Hey, let’s all just be assholes. That way we can die sooner and make room for the children.
           Don’t even get me started on the children. There’s no way you’d finish this short piece. It does have a bottom line, coming right up.
           I’d like to suggest that we all start paying attention. Martyrdom only serves a purpose if somebody cares. And there are some things, if we’re looking, that deserve a closer look. It all has to begin somewhere. And where will that be?
           Consider, I might have written a hundred more pages about the changes that are needed, to prevent very real things that go on right where you live. Everywhere, it’s increasing government surveillance. And yet, in some places it’s still slavery. Here and elsewhere, it’s actual human trafficking, including of children, and regrettably, not for parenting. Swindle and theft. Terrorism. Drug cartels. Gang warfare, drive-by shootings, rape, muggings, murder. The list could go on and on. And none of those things even touch what humanity is doing to the planet on which we depend for our very existence. As waterways open where the glaciers once were, corporations and governments team up to claim them.
           As I age, I’ve realized there’s something more important to me than even companionship or love. I wonder if there exists anywhere, any man or woman who feels the same?
           It will not be enough for humanity to survive.
           To be worth the effort, we need to begin to deserve it.






                                                                  *****

Loud and Clear

Loud and Clear

An Open Message to One of my Curses


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I have never heard your voice. I don't even know who, or what, certainly not where you are. If you’re anywhere! But you're coming through loud and clear...and I have to say, I have no idea why I should believe you now, if in fact I ever should have.

(Some of the things I write are the purest of fiction, others really aren't, but must be presented as such. This time, I'm not saying.)

The first time you showed up, and I can't say “appeared” because, you didn't - you awakened me while I was yet a child, a very memorable and horrible moment, deep in the dead of night. I didn't know anything at all about you; so of course I did not recognize you. But the effect your visit produced was decidedly negative to an extreme, as I awakened in grief like I’d never before experienced, and in tears. To the best of my recollection I'd had no dream or nightmare before it, and I had no idea why I felt so terrible – but very specifically, for someone who happened to be quite close to me. I remember I was not able to sleep for a while after that. It was so long ago, I don't recall if I slept at all after awakening that night. But awakening thus left a very powerful impression on my young mind.

The occurrence that followed about one month later cleared it up for me. You were prescience, either an unknown power or much-maligned falsehood, perhaps a mental and/or emotional aberration. But I could not deny what had occurred. Our much beloved family dog, who had reached the ripe old age of sixteen and who never ventured near the road, succumbed to the crushing weight of a vehicle.

Had it been the only such event, I might have forgotten about it. But it was not; throughout my teen years you seemed to follow me, as if determined to see to it that I would never be alone. And you had the most fertile of imaginations with which to do your work. I began to see everything in a strangely analytical light. I realized that neither people nor things were ever, ever exactly what they appeared to be. And far worse, because of you, I began to doubt reality. I gradually became suspicious of everyone and everything, and I knew no one around me shared my perceptions. It was very socially debilitating. I became sure that something was wrong, specifically, with me.

At last, however, in spite of you and while still a teen, I mustered my resolve and recovered my grip. I recall the event with clarity. But you did not go away, I simply ceased to fear you. I do not fear you, even now.

In my dreams, in broad daylight while awake, in a semi-awake state, no matter if I was fully occupied or doing nothing more than walking, you came to call. You have always been a problem for me, because for a period of time as an adult I believed many of my imaginings to be prescient thoughts when actually, they were probably not. And yet, I will never know for sure, because I tried to use you. I confronted my closest family members or close friends, asking them to be careful. “Don’t fly for a while, okay?” or “Avoid College Avenue today. Or anyplace near it.” or “Please, stay off the road today. I mean it. Really.” I believe that in most cases, my target individuals listened, because they knew me.

But other than such small things, I might have believed your occupation of my existence was over, until almost thirteen years ago. There were others in my car with me when it happened, and thus there are witnesses, as I told them what I’d just “seen.” You showed me a clear image that definitely was not there, but a clear image nevertheless, of a full-sized passenger jet, moving far too slowly and flying much too low, traveling west. It was a standard grayish-silver aircraft with both red and blue markings, one week before Flight 93 became one of the tragic airliner casualties on 9/11.

I just got up and took a hard look in the mirror. I don’t look like I’m kidding at all.

Tell me, prescient curse, what was the use of that? What information existed there that had the potential to help anyone? If you are a legitimate phenomenon, where is your causality?

And yet...you persist.

Then, at last, I began to write, and everything changed. The stories told themselves in most cases. I was often sure of the ending before I began, in others, I had no idea where it was going. But it was uncannily easy to do. You had a hand in that, didn’t you, prescience?

But if you had always been there when I needed you, I might not have totaled a car. You weren’t. I might have known it was coming before my parents had that accident. I had no idea. Or when my own mother fell ill. Ha, nothing from you.

All of those things were life-changing events. So why the inconsistency? It only creates unwelcome confusion, although frankly, I do appreciate the heads-up, when it counts.

And now, at last, I believe I understand. You will actually never come on-cue. I cannot use you. You will show me something if it’s really, really going to become a big deal to me, and then, only if it suits you. Because you’ve done it again. Yeah, I got it, loud and clear.

There is a stark difference between common worries and an event you’ve shown me. And I dare not tell anyone exactly what it was, because even now I doubt you. I would look like a fool if it didn’t happen. I’m just simply, not telling.

But I will say this: things that have occurred within the past year have shown me what is possible. What I’d thought was one kind of enlightenment was actually a revelation of quite a different kind.

I haven’t told many people about you. Small wonder, right? I’m nuts.

Many years ago I sat and told my mother about the things I was experiencing, and a formerly light-hearted conversation took an immediate turn. Her smile vanished and I thought she was about to advise me to seek some help. Instead, she became dead-serious, and then, after some moments of silence, she softly spoke. She said, “You must be careful never even to imagine anything negative. You can affect what happens.”

I have to say I've never really believed that. I still don’t. That would be a bigger thing than even telekinesis, would it not? And yet...

What I have seen is something I cannot help but want. So now, at last I’ll know, because despite the possibilities, it seems extremely unlikely to me. Strange prescience, you may have stepped in it this time. You shall surely be disproved because of the clarity of it. This was very definitely one of “those.”

So suppose it does happen. Just suppose. What do I do about you then? And if it does, I’ll have one more question. It’s the same one I’ve asked myself since the passing of our family pet. You know what it is, don’t you? It’s a simple question, really.

Do I have you, or do you have me?

********

Three Birds

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      This is an unlikely account of three birds, whose exact species shall not be mentioned. These three birds all happened to be male, which is probably irrelevant. Well, who knows.
      Bird number one decided it would be a good thing to be cool. So he bought himself a new pair of Ray-Bans with money he borrowed from his mom, flew to New York City and sashayed down the street amongst the crowds of people.

      Of course, it didn’t take long at all for a bird on the sidewalk to get stepped-on, new Ray-Bans notwithstanding. He might have learned from the experience, but only the other two birds, who were watching, realized what it meant. Which of course is, even if you actually are cool, nobody really gives a shit .

      Then bird number one decided maybe doing drugs would make him cool. There are certain challenges for birds that choose to do drugs. One is that you have a lot farther to fall if you’re dropping to the street. Another is dealing with pushers. How the hell would they know what you want, if all you can do is chirp? And a lot of those guys are armed, you know? So doing drugs was a bust after a while too. No pun intended.

      So finally he thought, maybe the ticket was gambling. He started out small, playing chicken with guys on motorcycles. Mostly they didn’t notice something coming that was only just so big, which always meant that bird number one lost. He didn’t learn from that, either, and worse, he was now hooked. So he started shooting craps and playing poker, and was forever losing his shirt.

      Bird number two thought that bird number one should have been number two, because most of the time he looked like it. But when you’re number two, he decided, you might as well accept it and make the best of it.

      Bird number two did possess a special talent, which was introspection. He believed with his whole tender heart, surely there must be a reason he was number two, so he took to prayer in an effort to discover why. Of course, there was no clear answer, which caused bird number two to ask almost continuously for forgiveness. But no matter how hard he prayed, he never really felt absolved. So he got pissed off and gave up on prayer, turning instead to taking comfort from ladies of the evening.

      Actually, they kinda liked him. He was a bird, you know? And they almost never treated him like he was number two.

      Bird number three was the smartest of the three birds. If he’d been a mouse, he would have been the second one that gets the cheese. He knew to hang back and to check out what happened to the other birds. And eventually, it paid off. He worked hard, and discovered that the harder he worked, the luckier he got. Birds do have a certain advantage in this area. He found himself a new “bird” every spring and became a daddy many times over. He enjoyed his active life and became the future of avian existence in his area of influence for many decades to come. Mostly, this was because he had decided he could surely do no worse than had the others, simply by being himself.

      Bird number two nearly died of the clap and thus he finally repented, entering seminary on his way to an abbreviated term in the ministry.

      Bird number one hit the lottery, bought himself a new beamer and drove like a complete asshole.


                                                             ***************

My Father’s Orchard

     This Saturday afternoon I clambered into several of the many apple trees in my father’s orchard. It’s what I’ve done for some consecutive Saturdays, to do something good and as much rewarding. Now that the weather is warmer it’s not at all unpleasant; there's a steady cool breeze from the west and the warm spring sun in my eyes when I look up to make the next selective pruning cut. The sweet sounds of songbirds are everywhere. Several large hawks pass overhead, scouting for prey. Dad quips that he hopes they won’t catch the Easter bunny. 
     Writing isn’t what I do to earn my daily bread, at least not yet. Neither is pruning apple trees, but if I had to do it as a part of my living, for sure I could do a lot worse. 
      Fruit growers surely must know they are artisans. They are also farmers of a sort, relying on a good annual crop. They plan their pruning, fertilizing and spraying schedules to coordinate with the weather and the seasons, which vary each year. Spring may come a little late as it has this year, or early, almost certain to be followed by damaging frost if the buds have responded to the warmth. Apple trees are amazingly resilient, but there are limitations when it comes to spring frost. 
      Pruning isn’t at all as easy to learn as one might think. It isn’t just cutting away the thick watersprouts, or “suckers” that has to be done. The amount of new wood a full-size apple tree puts forth in a single growing season is tremendous. Any single new-growth frond that wasn’t shortened slightly, or “headed back,” after one year has forked off into two or three useless watersprouts that probably have crowded their way into other branches. And thinning branches is nothing like cutting hair. Proper thinning is a measured and careful process tempered by an understanding of what configuration will produce the best and largest fruit, with room around the apples to permit sun-ripening. Buds that point downward are headed in the wrong direction, as are buds that point straight upward. Those that will bear and support an apple have sprouted to either side, and there are usually too many of those for the branch to support the weight of so many apples. So it’s a selection process, a hard look at the distribution of branches, and an experienced snip to help prevent overgrowth during the coming season. 
     And this is just about the pruning, not the subsequent thinning of fruit to prevent having too many apples so that they’re undersized. Or about the safe application of pesticides to prevent a myriad of minor maladies, such as apple “rust,” powdery mildew or scabbing that render an apple unsalable. Some years, for every whole apple that goes out for sale, two or three others are consigned to the bushels of “seconds” that will be processed for applesauce, canning or cider. 
     I don’t do all of this, I just know all of this because my father knows it. I grew up amid these fruit trees. Like any outdoor enterprise, some dedication to the end result is required to make you come out into the cold while the buds are still dormant, to try to get a jump on the process. 
     Dad’s orchard isn’t a commercial enterprise anymore. Dairyman, nurseryman, fruit grower, that’s my father. The orchard is the focus of his retirement, and I’d like to see him continue it for as long as he’s happy doing it. So I get out there with him when I can and do as much of the high work as I am able get to, before he does it. I have to be quick, because Dad doesn’t fool around. 
     There are many deer that are resident in the area, so deer damage to apple trees is a major problem. Some of the best and easiest apples to pick might have grown near the perimeter of each tree, but the deer see to it that they don’t. “Pruning apple trees changes your appetite,” Dad observed. “I feel a growing need for a venison burger.”
     He has lots of orchard-based wisdom to offer as well, some of it a bit of stretch. “Take off your hat and throw it at the tree,” he tells me. “If it doesn’t go all the way through, you’re not done.” 
     But it’s also true, once you know what you’re doing you kind of stop thinking about it, almost to the same degree as shifting gears when you drive. You just do it. That’s when the rewards begin, and that’s the source of my last paragraph. 
     Pruning apple trees is good for the soul. It provides time to reflect on the challenges you’re faced with in the world beyond the orchard, an opportunity for introspection, time to think about what you’re doing and to imagine what you could do. It isn’t just me. My father agrees. 
      Thank you, Dad. 

Nothing is Ever Forever

    I won't ask you to get out of your comfortable chair. Just imagine yourself stepping outside and looking around. If you see mountains, it wasn't always that way. If you don't, it wasn't always that way either. Water? It used to be dry land. Dry land? Water.
        You hear this "forever" stuff from people all the time, at weddings, in pop music, on the street if you're listening. You may have heard it or said it yourself. "I will love you forever." "You and me, forever." I suppose it sounds better than "I will love you for a really long time." But use of the word "forever" is truly misplaced. Because nothing at all is forever.
        You name it, folks. Mountains, plains, species, love, life, livelihood. Certainly, youth.
        Get ready, loosen up, think about who you really are. Change is always on the way. Delta-current reality = a constant.
        Depending on whether you know what's coming and how you feel about your current situation, maybe it can't come quickly enough. Then again, maybe the change that comes won't be the one you were looking for.
        But for most of us, whatever sort of cash stream may be feeding us or the relationship that seems to make life worth living, is often in reality, hanging by a thread. An executive or political decision from somewhere else can end the economic health of an area or of a whole city. People die in accidents, or the inevitable changes that happen as people experience life events can also change minds, about who and what things are important, changing in turn the lives of others, often drastically.
        Where I live, people tend to complain about the weather. They say: "If you don't like the weather here, just wait a minute." They believe it's too changeable. I don't think the weather here is bad at all. Hurricanes don't make it inland this far, tornadoes of any size touching down anywhere in the state would be big news. But observing weather is a lesson in life of sorts, because with weather, everything is affected by everything else. It's the same with just about everything, as it turns out.
        So, say something happens, and you've suddenly got a huge problem that you didn't have yesterday. The only thing that will bear you up will probably be your own personal strength. Have you exercised it lately?
        I would be very surprised if there's anyone out there at all who would be virtually unaffected by a revelation that no one actually cares about them, or worse. You just haven't lived until someone tells you something far worse than simply "You ain't shit." Yeah, I've been made to feel that way. Fortunately I've learned that no one has the right to do that to anyone. "Adversity builds character." Crap. It isn't necessary to belittle people to justify your decisions. If you're gonna do it, do it and shut up about it. Live and let live.
        Not so long ago, I came to a very startling realization. I'd thought for some time that I really didn't like people. Maybe I didn't, I don't know for sure and it no longer matters, as I've discovered the reverse is true. It turned out that what I have a problem with isn't people, the problem is leadership, or the lack thereof. The influential, capable self-serving put people in power and we are left out of it. Period.
        But I digress. Take care of yourself, if you don't know how, ask others, work on it, until you find out how. If no one else seems to care about you, you are simply mistaken. It isn't so. Friends of any kind are of great importance.
        And even friends aren't necessarily forever.

Day One: SparkleTown

Day One of my Blogging Experiment: SparkleTown

       I really don't know if it was just another of the strange things that are presently going on in my life, or if this phenomenon was completely real. I'm kidding of course, it was genuine, but honestly, at the same time, surreal. I've never seen anything like it. Ever. All I can say is the sun was well above the mountains as I headed out at 7:50 this morning. I took note of the time because I plan to duplicate my exit-time tomorrow in hope of seeing it again.
      The highway is cut into the top of a high ridge. The nearest town is laid out in the valley below as if you were viewing it from an airplane. However today, the town and the automobiles far below me absolutely sparkled. Sparkled! In broad daylight...white-light flashes, apparently from everything with glass - the motion of my car was no doubt a large part of the effect. I think it had to be that the sun was at the perfect height and angle at that time, angle of incidence equals angle of reflection, so that the directly reflected sunlight was coming right at me. But my little town, not necessarily so pretty in any other kind of light, looked more like Tinseltown than does Tinseltown. Or it might have resembled the hometown of Tinkerbelle (I'm pretty sure she doesn't live there). 
      As this is a lunchtime blog-burst and may never be repeated, I'll stop there. I haven't been writing much lately because of the aforementioned strangenesses, and this is a break-out effort. Not to mention, it was totally indescribable.
                                                                                                                                               -BT