I Want To Be Like Dad

I remember wearing my dad’s work boots when I was a little kid. The tops his boots came to my knees. I clopped around the house carrying his big lunch box which I had filled with Little Debbie’s Snack Cakes telling people that I was going to work. I could barely stand up in dad’s boots. My dad taught me to work hard. He was a telephone lineman and I can remember times when the phone would ring in the middle of the night. A storm had brought down the lines on some windy ridge and dad would be called out with his partner to restore service. In the days before mobile phones a downed line could be a matter of life and death for people with health issues. As I began to grow I became obsessed with the day I would be as tall as dad. I would beg him to stand back to back with me so mom could compare our height. It was dad who first taught me hunt. I can still see him knelt down on the old logging road pointing out the difference between buck and doe tracks. As the years passed my dad imparted a lot of the attributes that make me who I am today. And, even though I’m several inches taller than he is I still can’t fill his shoes.

On The Go

Our days seem to be spent in such a rush in the modern world. Today has been no exception. One of my goals in life is to get to point where driving is more about the journey than just making it the next destination. That’s probably why I like antique cars. Not only is the body design more artistic but the ride seems to be more relaxed. In spite of rough suspension and so much road noise that you have to scream at each other to have a conversation something just feels right. If there’s a radio at all its probably going to be AM with all the static and crackling of yesteryear. And with that I come to the end of tonight’s journey. Shut down the motor, set the break and refuel for tomorrow.

Morning Coffee

Pictured above is the trestle bridge at Gauley Bridge West Virginia. The Gauley River was peaceful and calm when I stopped at the convenience store to top off my morning coffee. You can see the last pylon from the old bridge still standing in the water.

Once part of American Civil War the remnant of the old bridge now imparts a peaceful feeling as I look out over the cool green water. Just beyond the trestle is the point where the Gauley River meets the New River to form the Kanawha River. The flat water seems to be popular with kayak enthusiasts who paddle up stream to relax on some large flat rocks and play in the shallows. The place always seems to give me nice reflection for my lens as well. After taking a few deep breaths I pulled myself away from the urge to call off work and headed back onto the highway slightly heartbroken due to leaving such a peaceful scene.

When An Angel Passes By

The subtle hint of rose petals wafts through the meadow. All falls silent for a moment. The tall grasses part softly. Down by the water’s edge the deer raise their heads and point their ears in her direction as they gracefully give way for her passage. The light takes on a soft golden glow around her as she approaches. She whispers and the warm breeze speaks peace to all who listen. I would have thought it to be a dream had it not been for the snowy white feather she left behind.

When An Angel Passes By

The subtle hint of rose petals wafts through the meadow. All falls silent for a moment. The tall grasses part softly. Down by the water’s edge the deer raise their heads and point their ears in her direction as they gracefully give way for her passage. The light takes on a soft golden glow around her as she approaches. She whispers and the warm breeze speaks peace to all who listen. I would have thought it to be a dream had it not been for the snowy white feather she left behind.