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Summer
Imagine…just imagine the scenes of Ashe County summers…a boy’s toe dips into
the river over the side of a slow-moving canoe…near the shoreline, a
gray-haired gentleman stands in swirling waters, his green waders strapped
to his suspenders. While deftly attaching a colorful new lure, he stops for
a moment and studies the freckled face of the passerby…he smiles. In the
quiet of the place, he remembers the lazy days of summers past…he sees a
barefoot boy kneeling over the railroad track putting pennies on the steel
rail for the Virginia Creeper to flatten into coins that were large but
wouldn’t spend. Later, there was a dark-haired girl who held his arm as they
entered a decorated gymnasium to the sound of prom music. Three children
came slowly and left quickly but not before there were T-ball games,
baseball games, softball games, camping trips, late-night sleepovers and
photographs in the backyard and fireflies in the warm evenings. Tucking them
in at night, he remembered thinking: We’ve had many summers together but the
one coming up is always the best. In the distance the young boy turned his
head and looked back up the river. He wondered: Will I ever be that old?
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Photo by Scot Pope, Vagabond Images
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Fall
Sunday morning…a sunny but cool day. The deep, summer green of the mountains
has become an endless swath of color…this year, the reds are redder, the
yellows brighter, the browns gentler. A few leaves fallen early rise in a
breeze and circle the four-pronged walker of a man moving unsteadily toward
the door of St. Mary’s Church. He enters to the somber, deep tones of a
recording tell the story of the frescoes. Near the back of the old wooden
church, he eases onto the edge of a long bench. He listens…gazes intently at
the magnificent, ancient art form…Mary, Great with Child, her soulful eyes
downcast; the crucified Christ, gaunt with the memory of pain; John the
Baptist, eyes burning with righteousness…the man rests against the pew and
lets the peace of the place soak into his mind. Outside, the wind picks up
and people note the coming of winter.
Photo by Scot Pope, Vagabond
Images
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Winter
The high-pitched peals of children’s laughter hangs in the air like musical
notes as they cling to colorful sleds hurtling down a snowy hill. Snowflakes
as big as silver dollars drift slowly to the earth. The children pause
periodically and throwback their heads and stick out their tongues to catch
a spiraling flake. In the distance, a mother…forgetting that only adults get
cold sleigh riding, children never do…calls her daughter home. The mountains
have a smudgy appearance…the stark white of the snow lying on the frozen
ground yields to the gray trees hovering like shadows. In the village, smoke
rises from chimneys and yellow windows signal the lack of sunshine. An old
woman sits by the fire but reaches for another cover. The wind gets against
the house and makes it creak. Nightfall comes on swiftly and morning arrives
slowly.
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Photo by Scot Pope, Vagabond Images |
Spring
Spring is a demure dancer peeking from behind a diaphanous veil…giving hints
of appearing…unveiling…then hiding again. But, one day according to some
mysterious, magical calendar known to no mortal person, there is a change.
There is a wind. Tiny snowflakes sting the eyes. The rain is bitter. Up come
the daffodils. Robins, with tiny suitcases in hand, glide in for a landing
and park themselves in the yard. Worms come to the surface and surrender.
Smoke ceases exiting darkened chimneys. Farmers crank up tractors and study
their fields. Mothers eye pansies in the supermarket. Then, it snows again.
The kids are happy…no school. Beneath the white blanket, the grass is
secretly drinking and turning green. And, when the snow is gone…its spring!
It’s spring!
Photo by Scot Pope, Vagabond Images |
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