Up The Creek

The beauty of the slope across the river, in Kentucky, was so striking I had already decided to drive home the long way around. An outing, one extra gallon of gas, $3.06, a cheap date. First a stop at the library where I found a Dorothy Sayers that I'd either not read or forgotten; a stop at the pub for a Saturday pint, a stop at Kroger for a few things. I have a nip of Glendronach in my bag, and figure to stop at the first ford and let the recent rains clean my undercarriage. The colors are lovely, the red sumac, the yellow poplars, and some of the maples are orange. The vegetation is still close, along the creek, but opens up on the slopes, where I can now see the ground again. B's place is on the way, when I come up the creek, so I stop there, just for a few minutes, touching base; he's playing with two bands and rehearsing four nights a week. He seems content, to be up to his ears in music, and hauling firewood on a Saturday afternoon. He has a book for me, the rise of the new sciences 1400-1600. The Humanists. I check the notes and the index and naturally my old friend Poggio is there. A New Yorker in the mailbox, with fiction by Murakami. Weather permitting, I want to haul wood for several hours tomorrow, and cut up the junk I've collected since last winter, small stuff that makes fine fires for cool evenings, but that will still allow hours for reading, then hours later, for writing. A new pack of dogs, in the distance, real hounds, on the trail of a coon. They sound quite lovely. Found a fine ginseng root today. I was parked in the creek and using a small telescope to look closely at the banks. I noticed the red berries and distinctive leaves. A park ranger had pulled in next to me, opposite direction so we were driver's side to driver's side. He had a sip of the scotch and I rolled him a smoke. He asked me what I was doing, in a friendly way, and I told him I was fixing to dig a nice ginseng root (there's a season, opens September 1) and he watched while I dug out my little mandrake, we both figured it was four or five years old. He was impressed that I had found it, sitting in the middle of a creek. I chopped it into some very high-proof moonshine. This works very well against skin diseases and congestive heart failure. When I was younger, I used it to stay up for 48 hours at a time, to make a special effect happen, or to drive 24 hours to get laid. The follies of youth. Now I take a sip to swage the local pain. Not that it makes any difference. But it seems to help, as I limp toward the door. Firewood, right, I see where we're going. Trying to not freeze to death. A noble ambition.