In which I go out to see the morning,
and ramble on as usual.
Take a ride through the Pine Barrens in the wee hours of darkness on the way to a favored location. Even in the blackness of night or soft glow of the coming morn', there is much to marvel at. I'm reminded of a boy some 30+ years ago that did just that almost every free Saturday morning the summer offered. Out early before light of day in the truck with mom and dad on the way to a favored crabbing spot, just between Rand's and Mike's, where the pipes came in. He would doze and gaze at the same time. Back then due to the times and his parent's tastes, the radio played the likes of Loretta Lynn, Ronnie Milsap, Barbara Mandrell, Kenny Rogers and the like. The Music, ethereal background sound to the dozing boy.
Leaving home Saturday morning I headed East, "heeding the path to take me to that place", I would return again. Crossing the Wading River bridge in the space between dark and the light of day, a picture. Passing by Crowleytown I mused a lyric as to ask old man Crowley "What went on in your head?" Passing through New Gretna it occured to me that "I've been waiting such a long time, for Saturday" Turn right off 9 onto the Blvd and the air, and the world begins to change. The day is comin' but not quite yet. Over a bridge that sight rings true.
Getting better as I go.
The Stinkhouse in the waning darkness a looming hulk off in the distance looking like a sleeping elephant alone on an island. Boy, are those last two crossings narrow. At the end, the evening's moisture still lies beaded on the grasses.
The morning will come and send it away. Not yet,
but soon,
A walk to the beach reveals what I've been waiting for. The beauty of the water and the waves and the quiet day before the boats come out racing and lapping the water's enroute to their favorite spots. There are fisher people off at water's edge in the meadow taking advantage of the hour.
The waves camly lapping at the shore in the increasing light.
This is the only time to reflect, away from the parties and picnics, the weekend sales, traffic, and madness of a holiday forgotten to meaning.
I think about all the people who served and gave all so that I have the freedom to put foot on this beach today, and for the fisher people who can cast their rods on this very shore. My children, I hold so dear and can know that were born to a place made safe by countless thousands who wanted that very thing for their children and children's children. They can go so far and do so much in this life and this country and there are many to thank for it. I can only hope so many people can be as thankful and never forget what Memorial Day really means, every single day of the year.
It occurs to me as the day comes there are birds of so many in variety and voice their numbers are almost overwhelming as my thoughts return to the place and time I'm in. They've begun the day's chores and are a treat to watch as they attack their many agendas as instinct dictates. Many regard me in passing or as I near them and their voices, looks,and tones all seem to send the same selfish message. This is their place, I'm just a guest, and I'm encouraged not to overstay my welcome.
The morning is beginning to come.
my visit is paying off.
I walk the beach a little to pass the moments and employ a little "walk in, carry out" effort to make up for the carelessness of others.
Here now, what I've come to see has come to see me back.
The boats have begun to come and provide many droning sounds and that slapping of hull to water, adding to the audio of my trip in a way that makes me a little sad. Who am I to resent their presence? It is a free country right? I hope they think about that while they enjoy their freedoms. I'll just be pleased with the fact that I was able just for a little while to enjoy the very still quiet of the background channels here and the pleasant sound that comes from waning or waxing tide.
I silently offer joy to any that are enjoying themselves so much as I right now. I walk the marsh a little bit my ownself.
A man has let his dog run and it regards me with some interest but before it can satisfy any curiousities, it is called back.
Well, the morning has come.
My time to go has come. Batteries recharged.
There are many fisher people laden with gear on kayaks on the inland channels. I silently bid them luck as they embark on the day.
A stop on one of the inland beaches reveals signs of mating time for the Horseshoe crab. There are four pair still at it and I do not photo them. Would I want that done to me? I regard them all as "empassioned lovers, wrestling as one". Sorry, got a little Moody there. There are signs of dozens of others that were on the beach last night, their twisting trails of chase all about the place looking like children's doodles. I play a lyric in my head again, "slow motion riders", as I think about how love eventually prevails. There are two singles floundering upside down also and I right them to spare them wasted time. There are the unfortunate signs of lovers of another species on the beach as well. An ignorant species and as I view their leavings I find myself thinking about the poor biodegradability of latex.
I'm going now and missing the place already as I turn back on to 9.
A stop is in order to top off the morning and in New Gretna I choose to take breakfast in a Clam Bar, befitting of my trip. The inside is rich in local artifact of both the Seaman and Baymen alike but I opt for an outside table. I want to continue to see the day before the shore traffic invades 9 and the quiet is welcome. The only sound really as I relaxed was the outside speaker sharing with me, ironically country music, though not the likes of the 1970's tunes the boy listened to in the truck. The breakfast is surprisingly generous even though light and all in, $4.55. The pleasant setting and good feeling made it all the more easy to pass the table girl a ten spot, thank her for her time, bid her well, and walk away. Sadly enough as I leave, Toby Keith on the radio tells me how he "lost her anyway".
The ride home is not quite complete without a short visit to Batso and while the sun was a little warm out in the open, the light breezes present in the shade of the many majestic trees made it cool and inviting.
A little look at the dining setting.
Always gives me a funny feeling crossing under this and coming out the other side.
On the way home I began to think about the place I'd been and how it was almost like a second home to the boy in those wondrous years. Time and age really can steal that from a person but as I passed through Chewtown on the way home, Jon Bon was on the radio reminding me, "who says you can't go home?".
So I went out to see the morning that day,
And it was good. Thanks for reading.
g.
and ramble on as usual.
Take a ride through the Pine Barrens in the wee hours of darkness on the way to a favored location. Even in the blackness of night or soft glow of the coming morn', there is much to marvel at. I'm reminded of a boy some 30+ years ago that did just that almost every free Saturday morning the summer offered. Out early before light of day in the truck with mom and dad on the way to a favored crabbing spot, just between Rand's and Mike's, where the pipes came in. He would doze and gaze at the same time. Back then due to the times and his parent's tastes, the radio played the likes of Loretta Lynn, Ronnie Milsap, Barbara Mandrell, Kenny Rogers and the like. The Music, ethereal background sound to the dozing boy.
Leaving home Saturday morning I headed East, "heeding the path to take me to that place", I would return again. Crossing the Wading River bridge in the space between dark and the light of day, a picture. Passing by Crowleytown I mused a lyric as to ask old man Crowley "What went on in your head?" Passing through New Gretna it occured to me that "I've been waiting such a long time, for Saturday" Turn right off 9 onto the Blvd and the air, and the world begins to change. The day is comin' but not quite yet. Over a bridge that sight rings true.
Getting better as I go.
The Stinkhouse in the waning darkness a looming hulk off in the distance looking like a sleeping elephant alone on an island. Boy, are those last two crossings narrow. At the end, the evening's moisture still lies beaded on the grasses.
The morning will come and send it away. Not yet,
but soon,
A walk to the beach reveals what I've been waiting for. The beauty of the water and the waves and the quiet day before the boats come out racing and lapping the water's enroute to their favorite spots. There are fisher people off at water's edge in the meadow taking advantage of the hour.
The waves camly lapping at the shore in the increasing light.
This is the only time to reflect, away from the parties and picnics, the weekend sales, traffic, and madness of a holiday forgotten to meaning.
I think about all the people who served and gave all so that I have the freedom to put foot on this beach today, and for the fisher people who can cast their rods on this very shore. My children, I hold so dear and can know that were born to a place made safe by countless thousands who wanted that very thing for their children and children's children. They can go so far and do so much in this life and this country and there are many to thank for it. I can only hope so many people can be as thankful and never forget what Memorial Day really means, every single day of the year.
It occurs to me as the day comes there are birds of so many in variety and voice their numbers are almost overwhelming as my thoughts return to the place and time I'm in. They've begun the day's chores and are a treat to watch as they attack their many agendas as instinct dictates. Many regard me in passing or as I near them and their voices, looks,and tones all seem to send the same selfish message. This is their place, I'm just a guest, and I'm encouraged not to overstay my welcome.
The morning is beginning to come.
my visit is paying off.
I walk the beach a little to pass the moments and employ a little "walk in, carry out" effort to make up for the carelessness of others.
Here now, what I've come to see has come to see me back.
The boats have begun to come and provide many droning sounds and that slapping of hull to water, adding to the audio of my trip in a way that makes me a little sad. Who am I to resent their presence? It is a free country right? I hope they think about that while they enjoy their freedoms. I'll just be pleased with the fact that I was able just for a little while to enjoy the very still quiet of the background channels here and the pleasant sound that comes from waning or waxing tide.
I silently offer joy to any that are enjoying themselves so much as I right now. I walk the marsh a little bit my ownself.
A man has let his dog run and it regards me with some interest but before it can satisfy any curiousities, it is called back.
Well, the morning has come.
My time to go has come. Batteries recharged.
There are many fisher people laden with gear on kayaks on the inland channels. I silently bid them luck as they embark on the day.
A stop on one of the inland beaches reveals signs of mating time for the Horseshoe crab. There are four pair still at it and I do not photo them. Would I want that done to me? I regard them all as "empassioned lovers, wrestling as one". Sorry, got a little Moody there. There are signs of dozens of others that were on the beach last night, their twisting trails of chase all about the place looking like children's doodles. I play a lyric in my head again, "slow motion riders", as I think about how love eventually prevails. There are two singles floundering upside down also and I right them to spare them wasted time. There are the unfortunate signs of lovers of another species on the beach as well. An ignorant species and as I view their leavings I find myself thinking about the poor biodegradability of latex.
I'm going now and missing the place already as I turn back on to 9.
A stop is in order to top off the morning and in New Gretna I choose to take breakfast in a Clam Bar, befitting of my trip. The inside is rich in local artifact of both the Seaman and Baymen alike but I opt for an outside table. I want to continue to see the day before the shore traffic invades 9 and the quiet is welcome. The only sound really as I relaxed was the outside speaker sharing with me, ironically country music, though not the likes of the 1970's tunes the boy listened to in the truck. The breakfast is surprisingly generous even though light and all in, $4.55. The pleasant setting and good feeling made it all the more easy to pass the table girl a ten spot, thank her for her time, bid her well, and walk away. Sadly enough as I leave, Toby Keith on the radio tells me how he "lost her anyway".
The ride home is not quite complete without a short visit to Batso and while the sun was a little warm out in the open, the light breezes present in the shade of the many majestic trees made it cool and inviting.
A little look at the dining setting.
Always gives me a funny feeling crossing under this and coming out the other side.
On the way home I began to think about the place I'd been and how it was almost like a second home to the boy in those wondrous years. Time and age really can steal that from a person but as I passed through Chewtown on the way home, Jon Bon was on the radio reminding me, "who says you can't go home?".
So I went out to see the morning that day,
And it was good. Thanks for reading.
g.
