Slow Rain

A train in Kentucky, coal for the power plants. Strange to hear it, but the conditions are exactly correct, so when I get up to pee what I hear is dripping rain on the roof, some frogs and bugs, and a train. The darkness was absolute, and I had to feel over to where I kept my headlamp. I didn't want the light, but I didn't want to stumble and fall. I'd already knocked over a pile of books tonight, which happens when you just pile books up. Forces my hand, and I'll put away some books later, sorting them by size and color. This is a stupid system I started using decades ago where I'd remember that something I wanted to reread was in a small yellow book. The system actually works, some of the time, which is about as well as to be expected. B has his library arranged alphabetically, which is so logical it leaves me speechless, my system of size and color pales. Through a scrim softly, back light, vague shadows, does one thing matter more than another? No. That classic butterfly in Mexico, a myth, is real enough; or dancing with the little people. What becomes iconic is simply fulfilling a function, a small gasp of disbelief, then you realize Donald Trump is actually running for president. I have to retreat to my redoubt and reconsider. Later, after a night of rain, fog is so thick I can't see across the hollow. Not a breath of wind, and the green is truly beautiful, washed clean and in hundreds of shades. Sitting on the back porch, with a cup of coffee, I feel detached from the politic of the world. I notice a lovely soft green plant in the cleared area, walk over there and see that it's Black Cohosh, a folk medicine for 'woman problems', plentiful enough that Dave says it isn't worth digging. He supplements his income by digging roots. It's interesting to note that many people on the creek dig roots, most everyone carries a trowel in the fall, one friend carries his in a holster. Brought up on westerns in the early days of TV, I've always loved the idea of a holster, wore a Buck knife for several decades, now I carry a Gerber knife that clips on the inside of my jean's pocket, and a Leatherman tool, with which, given the right soundtrack, I could build a new world. I'm granted a bit of hyperbole because I have a lot of morels right now, and I'm inordinately proud of that. I have morels and you don't. Clearly something is signified. All it means is that I spent some time in the woods, but when it appears on my table, a thick and smooth mushroom gravy, it seems to acquire meaning. Another title for my memoirs might be Butter And Bacon Fat, which would be not far from the mark. I need butter as I'm down to a single stick. Olive oil is fine, it brings out the fruit (apricots) but animal fat brings out the woodsy, smokey flavors, and that's what I like best about wild mushrooms. Mostly I just indulge myself. Ryan and Lindsey worked on the driveway, digging out the grader ditch, and they dug in all the right places, which is both pleasing and interesting to me. Pleasing, because I don't have to do it; and interesting because they dig in the correct places. Drainage, if you study it, makes a certain sense. And their timing is spot on: when the trees start leafing they absorb huge quantities of water, so there isn't the same danger of damage. Late winter, early spring, is when the driveway is most vulnerable. For six or seven months I should be able to get to town whenever I wish. D calls and wants to come out with a load of white oak stumps in exchange for dinner and conversation. I can't believe my good fortune. A load of white oak now, with what I pick up during the summer, will see me through another winter. I still have some wood left from last year, and Ryan said he'd come over and split what I needed. A deed of trust.

Nothing prepares you
for the still night, and the smell
of fragrant flowers