I'm Still Singing Like That Great Speckled Bird
Some nights are like this in Teloga, Georgia. There is no ottoman. I am at home. Gabe is watching television with his head against my thigh. I’m sitting with my legs pulled up, knees to my chest. Nanny is making a hat. Mom is fiddling with her phone and my cousin’s daughter is yawning and giggling on the sofa beside me. My belly is full. My heart is full.
There is no internet for miles. It’s just a fact of life this far out. And that’s okay. I’ll post this later. It’s so dark outside with no moon that I have tripped over all manner of stuff in my own yard. Out here on a clear night, you can see the whole milky way, a luminescing streak poured out over the sky. It’s something you never forget seeing. It’s something you miss when you grew up without the orange glow of light pollution and your neighbor’s motion lights and street lamps, where you can only see the brightest stars and a few planets on occasion. You never see a plane at night out here.
Out here under the bright stars, I can be as feral as I always was. I think my feet have been bare since I got here today, unless we went out by the fire. Out here where it’s so quiet, you can hear your own breath and your own heart until one of the dogs hears or sees something in the inky dark that you cannot. It feels much like sensory deprivation. But it feels so good. Clean. Sharp. None of the sounds of suburbia.
My hair smells like the smoke from the burn barrel we stood around, cracking up bits of kindling to stay warm in the chilly fall. It was good to stand out with my nephew, my baby brother, and my baby. They’re so similar. That’s a little good and a little bad.
In the shadow of Lookout Mountain, it feels like I’m nestled in a cupped hand. Mountains on three sides, tucked just at the foot. That mountain has saved us from tornadoes. I can see the cliff faces in the winter, when the trees are bare, with the sun sparking off the irony brown rocks, shot through with lighter veins, the lightest parts lit up gold and glowing. The trees still have a few too many leaves for that view today. Most of it was just the shadow over the edge of the burn barrel. No matter where I go over in these woods, there she is, long and low over the horizon. We have some small, rolling hills, but we also have open swathes of farmland, corn and soybeans, a fair share of cattle.
My family always said that was the mountain nearly in our backyard was Lookout. So close that we can see the hang gliders slip off the edge and swirl down and down and down in good weather. So close that the Air Force would sound test off the face and scare us half to death as children. She holds us. And she holds me tonight and I feel safe.
This is right where I ought to be tonight. Back where I came from. Back to the mountain that runs in my blood as much a part of me as the rocky, red soil and the tall, old tulip poplars, pale gray and smooth with darker patches, so tall you have to stand back to see the tops. The air here even breathes differently. It’s cooler and smoother in your nose and in your lungs. The tang of ozone.
I suppose there will always be someone I want to bring here to witness. I’d like to invite to meet my grandmother. I’d like to share my father’s favorite dessert and pour a handful of that earth I’ve turned countless times into another hand. Show my favorite tree and the waters I swam and the bridge over. Show someone how not to miss me for really knowing me. Careful not to drown in it. Ankle deep and still a danger to myself. A person who understands. I think that person is out there. I think maybe they don’t know how yet. Should I be patient? You’ll have to be. Should I wait? I would do that.
I am peaceful. I have a book to my right. And I brought another for Nanny to read. She always loves when I bring her books. We always shared that love for books. She gave that to me. One of the greatest gifts of my entire life. She’s given me several like that. Her resilience. Her craftiness. Her way of looking sly before she delivers a clever one-liner. How to grow and how to preserve and how to stretch a dollar until it squeals. Someone yesterday said she’s a force. And she is. And so am I. That might be the reason I should be here tonight. I need reminders of who I am. Of all I am. And of what I am not. And she will tell me all about that too.
Earlier, we stood at the sink, her washing and me drying. It’s become tradition. Looking out the window over the brush and trees down the hill to the mountain. She has shared so much wisdom, told so many stories, and made me laugh so many times right there just like that. Those are moments I will hold to my heart for as long as I live.
There are still reminders, small ones, of the things that all families have that we don’t talk about. Right there on the 200 year-old kitchen table that my father refinished with his own hands. The mechanism to open it out to accommodate a leaf for more to sit, old iron and certainly not machine-perfect. Things we all have that we select a rare few to tell. And we usually regret it. Right there beside the loaf of homemade bread that tastes like before the world was round. Before I’d seen or felt any of that wideness. Like naivete and peace and innocence. She says she’ll send me with some starter. I hope to share that with every soul who ever dares to love me. Food is love to us. Because sometimes there isn’t enough and there is nothing quite like seeing the longing of hunger in the eyes of someone you love.
Out in the back, my girl is buried. Lab and corgi. She was the most loyal creature I ever knew. She was my running companion and my roaming companion and the girl at my side every chance she got. I brought her home after finding her lying in the road, on the double yellow right in the center. I thought she might be dead. She wasn’t. She was just a tiny puppy and we brought her home and fed her and she recovered rapidly. And she was mine. Trepidation walking to her from the car, before I could drive. She lived a long, good life. And I buried her out there with my own hands. I always go to say hello when I’m home. Tell her I love her. My Fender. Selfless and soulful. No one has ever loved me that much. If you want to feel love, find a hound. Find a river.
It has been a good day. I’ve only choked up a few times. After last night, sitting on the kitchen floor rocking a little and sobbing while my cheesecakes baked with my knees tucked to my chest like I am right now. I suppose we all have to grieve the way we do. Mine is sugar and butter and lemon and eggs. And chocolate. But it has been a good day. I have barely had Gabe out of my sight. And I have needed that lately. Life is good. Things are good. And some nights are like that in Teloga, Georgia.
If any of you wonders, I ain't on FB much. Deleted from my phone. Mostly Instagram, which apparently autoposts. Y'all message me. I miss you.
There is no internet for miles. It’s just a fact of life this far out. And that’s okay. I’ll post this later. It’s so dark outside with no moon that I have tripped over all manner of stuff in my own yard. Out here on a clear night, you can see the whole milky way, a luminescing streak poured out over the sky. It’s something you never forget seeing. It’s something you miss when you grew up without the orange glow of light pollution and your neighbor’s motion lights and street lamps, where you can only see the brightest stars and a few planets on occasion. You never see a plane at night out here.
Out here under the bright stars, I can be as feral as I always was. I think my feet have been bare since I got here today, unless we went out by the fire. Out here where it’s so quiet, you can hear your own breath and your own heart until one of the dogs hears or sees something in the inky dark that you cannot. It feels much like sensory deprivation. But it feels so good. Clean. Sharp. None of the sounds of suburbia.
My hair smells like the smoke from the burn barrel we stood around, cracking up bits of kindling to stay warm in the chilly fall. It was good to stand out with my nephew, my baby brother, and my baby. They’re so similar. That’s a little good and a little bad.
In the shadow of Lookout Mountain, it feels like I’m nestled in a cupped hand. Mountains on three sides, tucked just at the foot. That mountain has saved us from tornadoes. I can see the cliff faces in the winter, when the trees are bare, with the sun sparking off the irony brown rocks, shot through with lighter veins, the lightest parts lit up gold and glowing. The trees still have a few too many leaves for that view today. Most of it was just the shadow over the edge of the burn barrel. No matter where I go over in these woods, there she is, long and low over the horizon. We have some small, rolling hills, but we also have open swathes of farmland, corn and soybeans, a fair share of cattle.
My family always said that was the mountain nearly in our backyard was Lookout. So close that we can see the hang gliders slip off the edge and swirl down and down and down in good weather. So close that the Air Force would sound test off the face and scare us half to death as children. She holds us. And she holds me tonight and I feel safe.
This is right where I ought to be tonight. Back where I came from. Back to the mountain that runs in my blood as much a part of me as the rocky, red soil and the tall, old tulip poplars, pale gray and smooth with darker patches, so tall you have to stand back to see the tops. The air here even breathes differently. It’s cooler and smoother in your nose and in your lungs. The tang of ozone.
I suppose there will always be someone I want to bring here to witness. I’d like to invite to meet my grandmother. I’d like to share my father’s favorite dessert and pour a handful of that earth I’ve turned countless times into another hand. Show my favorite tree and the waters I swam and the bridge over. Show someone how not to miss me for really knowing me. Careful not to drown in it. Ankle deep and still a danger to myself. A person who understands. I think that person is out there. I think maybe they don’t know how yet. Should I be patient? You’ll have to be. Should I wait? I would do that.
I am peaceful. I have a book to my right. And I brought another for Nanny to read. She always loves when I bring her books. We always shared that love for books. She gave that to me. One of the greatest gifts of my entire life. She’s given me several like that. Her resilience. Her craftiness. Her way of looking sly before she delivers a clever one-liner. How to grow and how to preserve and how to stretch a dollar until it squeals. Someone yesterday said she’s a force. And she is. And so am I. That might be the reason I should be here tonight. I need reminders of who I am. Of all I am. And of what I am not. And she will tell me all about that too.
Earlier, we stood at the sink, her washing and me drying. It’s become tradition. Looking out the window over the brush and trees down the hill to the mountain. She has shared so much wisdom, told so many stories, and made me laugh so many times right there just like that. Those are moments I will hold to my heart for as long as I live.
There are still reminders, small ones, of the things that all families have that we don’t talk about. Right there on the 200 year-old kitchen table that my father refinished with his own hands. The mechanism to open it out to accommodate a leaf for more to sit, old iron and certainly not machine-perfect. Things we all have that we select a rare few to tell. And we usually regret it. Right there beside the loaf of homemade bread that tastes like before the world was round. Before I’d seen or felt any of that wideness. Like naivete and peace and innocence. She says she’ll send me with some starter. I hope to share that with every soul who ever dares to love me. Food is love to us. Because sometimes there isn’t enough and there is nothing quite like seeing the longing of hunger in the eyes of someone you love.
Out in the back, my girl is buried. Lab and corgi. She was the most loyal creature I ever knew. She was my running companion and my roaming companion and the girl at my side every chance she got. I brought her home after finding her lying in the road, on the double yellow right in the center. I thought she might be dead. She wasn’t. She was just a tiny puppy and we brought her home and fed her and she recovered rapidly. And she was mine. Trepidation walking to her from the car, before I could drive. She lived a long, good life. And I buried her out there with my own hands. I always go to say hello when I’m home. Tell her I love her. My Fender. Selfless and soulful. No one has ever loved me that much. If you want to feel love, find a hound. Find a river.
It has been a good day. I’ve only choked up a few times. After last night, sitting on the kitchen floor rocking a little and sobbing while my cheesecakes baked with my knees tucked to my chest like I am right now. I suppose we all have to grieve the way we do. Mine is sugar and butter and lemon and eggs. And chocolate. But it has been a good day. I have barely had Gabe out of my sight. And I have needed that lately. Life is good. Things are good. And some nights are like that in Teloga, Georgia.
If any of you wonders, I ain't on FB much. Deleted from my phone. Mostly Instagram, which apparently autoposts. Y'all message me. I miss you.
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