'Bind Us Together': Celebrating Five Years of Blogging and a Journey Home to Southern Illinois

Rappelling ropes bound to a tree at Giant City State Park

It might not seem like much to you, but a 5-year blogiversary is a huge milestone--not millstone--for me. The reason I threw that millstone in there? Some years back when we lived in Paducah, Kentucky, we (SAM, Daughter, and I) attended a church where the people loved to sing a particular hymn at the end of each service. I guess our family has a strange sense of humor because we used to joke about it every Sunday after church. 

"Bind us together with shoelace and leather! Bind us together, O Lard!" If you've ever lived in the South, you know what I mean. It may be a deep-fried life, hot as hell sometimes and crisp with promise and not much else, but at least you can depend on your friends and family through good as well as bad times. They lift you up instead of dragging you down like a millstone around your neck. 

Rappelling ropes bound to people below 

SAM on a trail in Giant City State Park, March 15, 2013

No, it's not really the "lard" that flavors life in the South. And, yes, I'm including life in Southern Illinois too. There is something mysterious and wonderful about that place.

 

I moved there the summer before my junior year in high school, a confusing and vulnerable time for any young person. Life could have taken a wrong turn for me, but somehow things worked out. Everywhere I looked and listened, people were talking about Jesus. "Jesus Saves!" signs were posted on telephone poles and trees alongside country roads we took to school and work each day. My dad would poke a little fun at them and remark "Oh yeah? Moses invests!" He didn't mean any disrespect. The move meant big changes for him too. Back then, at least to me, he seemed to take everything in stride. But he was probably just as confused and vulnerable as I was. I think we all are at one time or another. We might think we can handle it alone, but we can't. 

Ties that bind us together: they're not lard, and they aren't shoelace and leather. Joking aside, somehow, somewhere we find the ones that fit--if we're prayed for, lifted up, blessed by and with family and friends.

Thank you, blogging friends, for sharing the past five years with me. I've enjoyed your good company along the way.

Tommy Emmanuel Visits Pensacola and Makes Waves

Who is the greatest guitarist alive? Live (in concert)? I would argue that Tommy Emmanuel is the answer to both questions. If you watch just a few minutes of this rather lengthy video, you will understand what I mean.

To top off the celebration of our 33rd wedding anniversary this past weekend, SAM and I attended a concert sponsored by WSRE (local PBS station) at Pensacola State College (Jean and Paul Amos Performance Studio) on Sunday evening. The auditorium was rather small, but the experience was huge.

It's a wave that washes over your head and carries you away. You don't mind, though. You are not afraid. The music immerses you, but you're not submerged. You become part of the liquid, the music, the response. Do you respond by clapping, whistling, hooting? It doesn't matter if you just sit there like a lump. Well, maybe it does matter. Cameras all around the auditorium are capturing every movement, every expression of joy, sorrow, elation, adulation. The entire concert is being recorded.

Who knows? There might be a shot of SAM and me in a new video production someday. Now that's a scary thought!

Graceful Living on the Gulf Coast: Expect the Unexpected

SAM with lucky redfish (it's not a keeper/outside of legal "slot size," so released) on 11-11-2012, Pensacola Beach Pier

It seems that no matter where you go these days, you are subjected to someone else's taste in music, usually not to your liking. Restaurants, shops, and workplaces want to hurry you along, stir you into a buying frenzy, or lull you into complacency with your lot in life. I usually tune out the tunes I hear. Lately, though, I've been hearing a song played at work that gives me a lot to think about: Tim McGraw's Live Like You Were Dying.

It certainly does not lull me into complacency with my lot in life or anything else for that matter. It's reminding me to notice things--expect the unexpected.

When you live near the sea (or maybe it's when you've lived for more than a few decades), you get used to having marvelous, unexpected things happen. The wind picks up, and the waves crash with increasing intensity and frequency. Life is charged with possibility.

Body of electric ray (?) found on beach near Destin, 11-3-2012

It's been happening a lot lately for some reason--the unexpected, I mean. Most of it has been good, and that's even more unexpected. What have we done to deserve it? Absolutely nothing. Can we expect it (the "good") to continue? Of course not. Life is nothing if not full of grace, even in death....

Several years ago, on a day not unlike Veteran's Day 2012, SAM, son, and I went to Pensacola Beach, expecting to have a sun-and-fun-filled day on the water, kayaking and relaxing on the sand. The wind and waves had kicked up a notch more than we expected. Kayaking in the Gulf was not an option so we relaxed on the beach and watched some adventurous souls venture into the chilly and choppy sea. There were rays of some sort darting to and fro in the water, and some people on the beach were following their progress.

Not more than an hour had passed when we heard some commotion happening nearby. Apparently, some swimmer was in trouble. People were yelling, ambulance sirens announced the arrival of emergency responders, and presently the body of a young man was dragged onto the beach from the crashing surf. We stayed where we were, not wanting to get in the way of some form of help arriving every few minutes from the parking lot nearby. A group of young men fell to their knees and began to pray. What was happening? We talked to some other people nearby who had ventured close to the tragic scene and then returned to their beach blankets, all of them with a stunned look on their faces. Apparently, a young man visiting the beach with a group from a local Christian college had a sudden heart attack and collapsed in the water. We all watched as a helicopter swooped down, creating a sudden, unnatural sandstorm. It collected the body of the young man along with a couple of his companions and disappeared in a cloud of noise and sand.

We could learn nothing more than speculation from the people we encountered as we walked toward the water's edge. The rays were still swimming back and forth along the beach, seemingly more agitated than before, and the swimmers were all beached. No one seemed eager to take a chance on meeting with something else dangerous or unexpected in the water.

The young man who was airlifted to a nearby hospital was never revived, we later found out. We have often wondered what could have happened to him. Finding the body of an electric ray (at least that's what we think it was) on the beach last weekend brought to mind the young man's demise. Somehow the connection of rays and a young man's sudden death made sense. Really? Death makes no sense. Neither does the wind, nor do the waves. Grace is nothing if not full of life, even in death.

Jane Austen: No Swooning Allowed

If not for SAM's cold--probably contracted whilst celebrating at Walk2Write's post-graduation party last Sunday (a bitterly cold day) on the patio of a local Mexican restaurant, somewhat warmed by propane heaters but still drafty--a visit by the irascible sister-in-law would be imminent this weekend. Fortunately, or not as you might imagine, the weekend was saved, and there was another celebration of sorts. Walk2Write was alerted to the fact that today is the 236th anniversary of Jane Austen's birthday. Love and Friendship was read and enjoyed for the first time ever by yours truly and SAM, whilst on the deck of their tree house, warmed by the afternoon sun and each other's company. It doesn't get any better than this and probably shouldn't.

Merry Christmas and may God bless you!

'Press On,' Literally

If you have been following yours truly since the beginning of this blog, you know that the journal and the journey began with a dream. The dream may have been put on hold for a while, but the journey continued. I didn't want to talk about the dream anymore; it went into a box and was sealed up for a while.

Then we moved to Tallahassee, and the most amazing thing happened. The dream was so strong that it broke the seal on the box and danced around in my head again. Its rhythmic beat would not be still. So I let it play out, the whole song, the whole dream. Only I didn't want to share it again with ya'll. I kept it close to the chest and piled on the layers. Call it superstition if you like. I prefer to call it intuition.

School is now over, and the test has been taken
My faith has been tested, but it wouldn't be shaken
The reason is clear
If you choose to look here


"Press On" were the words
That I heard in my head
"Press On" were the words quite real
The words that often were spoken
The words that heal
The broken...

Dream  

Just Stopping By--Dead Man's Sink and Monarch Butterflies

Monarch butterflies on Baccharis halimifolia (salt-marsh elder aka Consumption Weed)

Secret Aging Man (SAM) and I both agreed on Saturday morning that we were ready for a change of scenery. How about the Aucilla River Sinks Trail? I had received a forwarded e-mail from someone earlier in the week. It promoted an upcoming field trip to this place, known for its abundance of wildflowers and unusual geologic features. Perfect for us! we thought--that is, until we met the man in the cherry-red truck.

Josh, he said his name was, and, now that I think about it, I don't think the name was a coincidence. We were lost, you see, having driven down dusty back roads for the better part of three hours. The map we had printed from an Internet site was pathetic, and the Suwannee Water Management District signs weren't very helpful either. True to our low-tech nature, we didn't have a GPS device on hand to direct our course and pinpoint our destination. Enter Josh, the man in the truck. Ya'll aren't from around here. Plannin' to drive that car down these here roads? Why yes, we're looking for this trail, you see, and we've been driving down these roads for a while now, looking for it...

Monarch butterflies not too proud to share the feast with some Common Buckeyes

He told SAM to pull up behind him just past the intersection of two more dusty roads. They both got out of the vehicles, he proceeded to introduce himself and his "wife" (who looked about 14 years old, according to SAM), and then he gestured in the direction of one part of the trail. The men walked several yards in that direction, and I missed most of the rest of their conversation while I waited in the car. I did hear something about Dead Man's Sink, people never being seen again after straying too far from the main road, and this here bein' drug runnin' country. By the time SAM made it back to the car, I had already made up my mind. Let's skip the Sinks Trail and go to St. Mark's National Wildlife Refuge instead.

We were both glad we did, because the Monarch butterflies were just stopping by on the way to Mexico, and the Muhly grass was showing off its pretty pink fluffiness all over the place.

Muhlenbergia capillaris seen at St. Mark's NWR

After driving around for hours, a walk was just what we needed. It was a sunny and very windy afternoon. Unlike Maria in James Joyce's story "Clay" (Dubliners), by the time we were ready to go home I wasn't "coloured with shame and vexation and disappointment" for having lost something because of confusion--plumcake in her case, time in ours. My cheeks were almost as rosy as Muhly grass from the sun, the wind...

Love is...a blind--for bird watchers

and the afternoon's adventure shared with my cohort in confusion.

SAM and Walk2Write on a trail at St. Mark's National Wildlife Refuge

(I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls...But I also dreamt, which pleased me most, That you loved me still the same...)

A Book Review: Taking Evans' 'The Walk' Across Florida and to Ichetucknee Spring

I've always believed that the quickest way to a man's heart and maybe soul is not through his stomach but through his love of nature. When SAM the Saluki man and I first met at SIU 32 years ago, it was our shared love of all things outdoors that sealed and nourished our relationship. Walks in the woods, climbing glacial-era sandstone boulders at nearby Giant City Park, and studying each other between classes on a park-like campus filled our memory banks with more riches than any exalted career path ever could. When I picked up Richard Paul Evans' The Walk at the library a couple of weeks ago, the title, the cover, and the jacket description of it as a "life-changing journey, both physical and spiritual," captured my attention. Here, I thought, would be the perfect traveling book. We had a journey of our own to take across the state of Florida, and I figured Mr. Evans might have some insights to share with us through his fictional characters. For instance, would the protagonist change his plans to suit an irascible sister-in-law and keep peace in the family? Probably not, since he's hell-bent and trauma-warped enough to insist on doing it his way. Doing it means walking all the way from Seattle to Key West, after he has "lost everything," and he's "taking with him only the barest of essentials." Like a debit card to draw on a hefty account administered by his attractive personal assistant? So he can buy energy bars, trail mix, Pop-Tarts, and beef jerky to fuel his passion for walking. And later to pay for meals at roadside diners and then a night's stay at a luxurious bed-and-breakfast. Some things in this book don't ring true, and I think it might have a lot to do with the walk itself.  

 Before we took that tandem kayak for a float down the Ichetucknee River a week ago Monday and before we ventured across the state to visit the Irascible Sister-in-Law and other, more easygoing relatives, SAM and I felt like we needed a walk in the woods. We stayed in High Springs on Friday night at a cheap but mostly clean motor inn for a couple of reasons. First, the bigger chain motels don't consider it worth their while to locate themselves so far off the beaten path (Interstate 75). Secondly, we thought we might do the float on Saturday morning before heading over to the East Coast. Then the phone call was made on Friday evening to firm up plans for the weekend. The ISIL made it clear that she was fixing a roast for Saturday supper and that the other family members from Australia were going in the afternoon to visit SAM's mom at the nursing home. Wouldn't we like to join them for both events? Black sheep though we may be, SAM and I decided to keep the peace and not make waves, at least not this time. We would swing back by Ichetucknee on the way home to Tallahassee, hoping the sunny, dry weather would hold on for a couple more days. It did. Getting back to the walk, though, we headed out early Saturday morning to O'Leno State Park where we found a swinging bridge to cross. This one was built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s. I don't think anyone has too many complaints about the way that particular stimulus plan worked. We're still enjoying the benefits in 2010.

We hadn't planned on staying more than an hour or so walking on the trail, but you know me. Once I start breathing in that lovely pine smell, and looking up at the lofty canopy towering overhead, I'm hooked.

Who needs to buy Pop-Tarts and beef jerky when you can survive in the woods on pine bark and seeds with a side order of pine needle tea? Getting back to The Walk now, I find it ironic that a physical and spiritual journey gets fueled by store-bought fare. Nature is the best provider as well as healer.

I'm not sure what I expected to find between the pages of the book, but product placement was the furthest thing from my mind when I first started to read it. It didn't take long for the name-dropping to begin. By Chapter Two, I knew that the protag, Alan Christoffersen, drives a Lexus and fell in even greater love with a woman who once operated a Kool-Aid stand. Of course, all of the hype could be explained by the fact that he's an advertising executive. He pitches products for a living so brand names belong in this book, right? Not so fast. Maybe they do before he begins his walk, while he's still caught up in his fast-paced, high-falutin' lifestyle, but once he begins preparing for that spiritual journey after losing everything, those brand names should disappear like water down a sinkhole. Not so. Ray-Ban Wayfarers and an Akubra Coober Pedy hat purchased in Melbourne, no less, adorn our hero as he sets out to leave his life behind.

Water never really disappears down a sinkhole. It just reappears somewhere else, downstream, hopefully in better condition than when it sank. (That's probably not the case, though, considering all the organic and inorganic pollutants that somehow find their way into the groundwater and recharge system.)

For some reason, I expect a good book to do that too--reappear downstream, away from the polluted mainstream, I mean. It has a path for me to follow, and even if it starts out a bit awkwardly, I want it to take me somewhere extraordinary.

So when I read on the first page of Chapter One "The water before me [Gulf of Mexico as seen from Key West] is as blue as windshield wiper fluid," I figure there's still time for this book to find its footing. The journey has just begun, right? Well, no, actually the protag has already reached his destination and the story begins at the end. He tells us that he has "come a long way to get here--nearly 3500 miles." On foot. Where does windshield wiper fluid fit in with that picture? Maybe it's the author's voice squeaking through the veil. Evans tells us on his website that he couldn't "write the book without experiencing the path" his protag takes. So he flies to Seattle and rents a car to drive that path. Whatever happened to walking a mile or 3500 in someone else's shoes?

Or floating down a lazy river in someone else's kayak?

Remember I told you that we waited a couple of days to take that float down the Ichetucknee? I'm so glad we did. If we had gone Saturday, the course would have been clogged with many more boats and people. Now, I'm not antisocial, but when I'm in need of peace to do some serious thinking, the fewer people around the better. 
"What is it to be admitted to a museum, to see a myriad of particular things, compared with being shown some star's surface, some hard matter in its home! I stand in awe of my body, this matter to which I am bound has become so strange to me. I fear not spirits, ghosts, of which I am one--that my body might--but I fear bodies; I tremble to meet them..." --Henry David Thoreau, Maine Woods, "Ktaadn," Part 6

I do like Evans' use of a journal and famous quotes to keep the novel flowing, but I wish he had chosen some better ones than this:
"Above all, do not lose your desire to walk. I know of no thought so burdensome that one cannot walk away from it." --Kierkegaard
The Ichetucknee begins with one head spring, and it becomes a mighty flow not far downstream as other springs join it. Not fast moving, mind you, but flowing nonetheless. It takes hold of your imagination and gets away with it sometimes. Like something that Thoreau has written. Now there's a source from which to gather quotes. Who needs to walk away from burdensome thoughts? Take them with you, wash them in the river, and try them on for size again.

"What is this Titan that has possession of me? Talk of mysteries! Think of our life in nature--daily to be shown matter, to come in contact with it--rocks, trees, wind on our cheeks! the solid earth! the actual world! the common sense! Contact! Contact! Who are we? Where are we?" --Henry David Thoreau, as above

Try as you might, you can't plumb the depths of a spring anymore than you can a human spirit's.

It has hiding places that not even its owner knows about. Someone once told me--or maybe I read it somewhere--that every human has a God-shaped hole in his/her soul. He/she yearns for it to be filled with something. It cries out like an empty stomach and is never satisfied with anything less than the real deal.

Nature was never intended to fill the hole. That would be counterproductive. It's not eternal, and I can't take it home with me. The Lobelia cardinalis I find on this trip down the river won't be there the next time I visit, and it's designed to thrive right where it is, not to be uprooted and thrust in some flower bed.

The Great Egret, Ardea alba, is certainly an object to be admired and maybe even studied but worshipped?

Even turtles like this log-hugging River Cooter seem to know when it's time to cut the crap or the tree so that the river's flow continues unobstructed, and as a bonus he gets a place to hang out and catch a few rays.

Where I am going with this train(wreck) of thought as I float down the river, past the Great Blue Heron intent on catching his dinner? To the latest news about a solar installation in the Mojave Desert. According to an article in the Huffington Post, a couple hundred permanent jobs will be created once this project is completed. Woohoo! I'll bet Californians are excited about that prospect. Though, maybe the creatures calling the desert home won't be so thrilled about it. Ah yes, the price we all must pay for progress. Solar Millenium, a German company responsible for designing one of the 14 fast-track projects approved--for permits as well as funding--by the federal government, "will be required to mitigate the project's effect on more than 8000 acres of habitat for the desert tortoise, western burrowing owl, bighorn sheep, and Mojave fringe-toed lizard, as part of an agreement with federal officials." Unfortunately, the animals were unavailable for comment on the mitigation plan. The same could be said for the vegetation and various insects inhabiting the region.

We knew our trip down the river was nearing its end when we saw the power lines spanning the water. Was it the hum of electricity and towering symbol of man's interference with Nature that told us so? Not exactly. The lady at Ichetucknee Family Canoe & Cabins told us to call her so she could drive the van over to pick us up at the takeout point nearby.

That's where this story began, with SAM the Saluki man, climbing outta the 'yak. And the river keeps going, flowing freely, past the point where we left it that day.

Playing It to the Hilt Whilst Over the Top

Winter '89-'90,
Lake St. Louis, MO

A newfound blogging friend, Ann, has given me an award for my blog being Over the Top. (Thanks, Ann! It's my first award, and I intend to make the most of it.) Now, I've always thought that particular idiom meant something like extraordinary, ridiculous, or outrageous. It does, moreover, have its origins in World War I trench warfare terminology. When soldiers were ordered to leave the relative safety of their trenches and venture out into the open, perhaps into harm's way, they were going, literally, Over the Top. It's easy to see that my life experiences have been anything but entrenched with SAM as my partner.

Here are my one-word answers--as required, but not fair!--to The Questions:

Your Cell Phone? Ancient.

Your Hair? Graying.

Your Mother? Efficient.

Your Father? Missed.

Your Favorite Food? Mom's.

Your Dream Last Night? Forgotten.

Your Favorite Drink? Wine.

Your Dream/Goal? Teaching.

What Room Are You In? Living.

Your Hobby? Gardening.

Your Fear? Heights.

Where Do You See Yourself In Six Years? Classroom.

Where Were You Last Night? Here.

Something That You Aren't? Male.

Muffins? Yes!

Wish List Item? Plants.

Where Did You Grow Up? Everywheredaddyworked.

Last Thing You Did? Scratched.

What Are You Wearing? Jeans.

Your TV? Flat.

Your Pets? Peanut.

Friends? Many.

Your Life? Exciting!

Your Mood? Romantic!

Missing Someone? Yes.

Vehicle? Honda.

Something You Aren't Wearing? Perfume.

Your Favorite Store? YoungLiving.com.

Your Favorite Color? Aquamarine.

When Was The Last Time You Laughed? Now.

Last Time You Cried? Sunday.

Your Best Friend? SAM!

One Place You Go To Over and Over Again? Past.

Facebook? No!

Favorite Place To Eat? Home. 

As instructed, I give this award to five, fine people who might like this sort of thing. I didn't think I would at first, but I've changed my mind. Hey, I'm not male, remember? 

Rambling Woods (Michelle)

The Write Gardener (TC)

Pensacola Daily Photo (Paula)

A Succulent Life (Julie)

In Art Lies My Heart (Chandramouli)

Note: Just because I didn't list more than five people doesn't mean that any one of you blogger friends out there is undeserving of this award. Julie gave the award as a warm blanket to all of her friends, which is something I'm also doing right now. So, please feel free to grab the award and participate! I hope you do...

SAM's Rock Garden

Hello! This is Secret Aging Man posting as a guest, for the first time on W2W's blog. My dear W2W insists I do something productive and join her blog as a periodic “guest blogger” and share wonderful tidbits of knowledge about rocks. Well, I’m not sure if anyone out there really cares much about pretty rocks and minerals or if joining in a cyber-conversation is really the kind of productivity I need. Given my recent layoff (first time in 29 years), perhaps remembering and recording some of my past hobby experiences will indeed provide a creative release and reduce the stress of living in these troubled times.

Maybe a little background information is appropriate to include here. I am 51, married for the past 29 years to Walk2Write, parent of two grown children and grandparent to one rockin' 2-year old boy (hereafter called "Pebble Pup"). My professional background as a geologist has see-sawed from environmental professional to oil exploration geologist. I used to joke that I could go out and find the oil deposits, then switch hats and charge for cleaning up the mess we made with all the oil contamination! Really – I’m kidding here. Please don’t take everything said too seriously. I am all for being a good steward of the environment, but there are always at least two sides to every story.

My love for rocks all started when I was about six years old and just couldn't stop picking up shiny stones from the family driveway and stuffing them into my pockets. The obsession got so bad and the pile in my bedroom floor so big, that my parents finally found a fellowship of rock-lovers (our regional rock club) to train their young son in proper rock collecting techniques and identification. We found out that the shine and color a lot of the driveway rock was because it contained the minerals fluorite, sphalerite, and galena. Seems our home in Southern Illinois was paved with limestone aggregate from the "spar" mines, located about 60 miles to the southeast, in Rosiclare. My first rock collecting site turned out to be a pretty good one, if only ten feet from the front door!

The photo shows what I have left of the once vast family mineral collection. About 95% to 98% of our collection was sold back in the early ‘90s to pay for a necessary home foundation “prop-up”. Seems my Mom’s house was situated directly over the underground workings of a Southern Illinois coal mine and the surface of the ground slowly sank, or subsided, in response to the sloughing of the old mine pillars. This is a common malady in areas where subsurface coal mining is prevalent and can be compared to “sinkholes”, for those not familiar with mining, but perhaps living in areas of cave topographic expressions. I will discuss fluorite at greater length, in my next post.