The Shift

My Mom's coffin was the blackest thing I have ever seen. Like Malevich's painting. Like a black hole in space. Watching the big yellow front end loader dig out just enough space to lower her into the ground I considered the soil composition (lots of sand) and the absurdity of a box inside another concrete box. It rained. We stood in a loose circle around the hole watching the loader's claw violently tearing at the sodden earth again and again and then pushing a big metal frame down to keep the sidewalls of earth from collapsing. When the casket was lowered into the ground I looked at my nephew; his expression is forever etched into my mind. As is the sound of the soil hitting the box.

The universe has shifted. I expected and even prayed for this death. I didnt realize how heartbroken I would be once it happened. Somehow I am not the same person I used to be. There's nothing to be done about it.

My sister longed for a road trip and drove me back to the ATL. I-75 bottlenecked at the Turnpike with sunburnt spring break kids from northern colleges and big rigs inching along under a perfect dome of florida blue. We got off and went west on 44 and north on  27. I was hoping for more marshy landscapes but it was mostly Florida scrub with only the Withlacoochee river to offer a water view. We stopped for lunch at the Cypress Inn for some soul healing fried food. They had sold out of the mullet but we found the massive serving of grouper agreeable along with hushpuppies and sub-par mashed potatoes. The swamp cabbage was not up to snuff. According to my sister it should have been sauteed in butter and left mostly alone. (Swamp cabbage is hearts-of-palm in case you didn't know.)

When we crossed over the Georgia border the landscape began to roll a bit and it was lovely. If you have  a few extra hours, like 5, then this is the way to go. No billboards. Lots of pecan trees and grassy glades dotted with a yellow flowered cover crop. There was yard art and little towns and trailers and beautiful cows. We pulled into Thomasville Ga, the rose capital of the south (so they say) and tracked down a nursery that carried a certain rose my Mom loved. The nursery was closed but they opened it for us anyway and we left with 5 rose bushes. The last 4 hours were mostly dark and quiet until erupting into a big city friday night. Another traffic jam forced us off the super slab offering an opportunity to expose my sister to the Atlanta she has never seen.

*****************

Now I am back at Chickory alone at last. Its spring. I may have missed my window to have the tree work done. They have all leafed out which means I will get less done for the same money. Maybe I should wait for winter. But the land is gorgeous in its fresh greens and Easter colored blooming trees and shrubs. Palm Sunday was glorious after the big rain and high winds of early saturday morning. As we enter the most solemn week of the year, I am reminded of something I read at my Mom's funeral:

"All the works of the Lord are exceedingly good"

**Thank you all, for your kind words and comments regarding my Mother's death. I did see the special posts and tributes that you made, and I promise to get to your blogs and thank you properly. Know that I cherish you all as my blog family and that your kindness has been remarkable in its gift of healing.

xo Chickory

driving to the IGA

on my way to the IGA
flickered light on my windshield and a relentless squeak on the driver side
more cars on the "for sale" lot; now assorted boats and towing rigs
those with less feel it more and first
rural america tells the tale the news does not
i returned with Trout to the spot on the lake from last month
same family was on the piney point
this is not a vacation this is home for as long as it can be
tacky plastics littered the campsite and clothes hung from limbs
the children bedraggled and suspicious

not much was spent at the art benefit last night
many works of art found no patron and no home
the auctioneers pleaded and the schtick was forced
the crowd even thinner than last years thin

at the farmers market people spoke low
like dissidents, like conspirators
people the news says are a growing domestic problem
you know, people who distrust the Fed?
problem people in trucks with birdhouses
and squash and daylillies and baked breads
talking about the tightening noose
the massive taxes pending and ideas for controlling more
im not the only one
theres a lot of me now
the lot of me now are those who wont postpone
whatever it was they were postponing
because the now is all there is
and though
we may have read that somewhere
its not just pages anymore
now its fading parents and its
crystal

halfway to Copperhill a white dog trotted along the road
and drew my attention to the graveyard
with a spectacular view of the Big Frog
smokey hazy summer blues
gardens and white framed church houses
the apple house with fried pies and hay rides
the Oz of former copper mines loomed
at the curve
the state line
where beer can be purchased even on sunday


they say during the mining
this forest
was the moon
acid rain hates greenery
and workers



standing empty and tall the rusted death star
the Intertrade plant
overlooked a pool hall, a mexican restaurant and a dollar general
and confederate flags
with pit bulls in the middle
the collars read "dixie"

Trout swam the Toccoa
shared flow with weekend tubers and kayakers
she tired of it and jumped into the truck bed
the signal for ready to go
tourists from the train roamed the street
i sucked on a cherry limeade
and watched them from the IGA parking lot
taking pictures of a painted line
one side georgia
the other side tennessee
like dawn of the dead
the fathers day version


flickering light again
and the driver side squeak
i held it
and rode in silence

***********

PS: i did not make it to the top ten in the dog
wine label contest. thanks though, to everyone who voted.
i really appreciate that!! xoxoxox