Esther Ruth

I only went to the Moore Farm perhaps a half-dozen times. I always enjoyed visiting the cracker Florida farm with the weathered wood and tin barns and sheds. One of the sheds the Moore sisters had made into a tool museum, hanging the old farm implements along the old wood walls of the barn.
The watercolor class under Loye Barnard once spent an afternoon on her farm plein air painting. Robert Jones and I made a visit or two to photograph the buildings.
This past April 11th, Miss Esther Ruth Moore passed away at age 91at Haven Hospice. According to the obituary, she was born January 6, 1922 on this farm, the daughter of Marion and Sadie Rivers Moore.
She was a descenant of the Moore, Rivers and Goodbread familes, pioneers of Northern Columbia County. She attended the long closed Winfield School until 9th grade then Columbia High.
Following Massey Business school in Jacksonville, she returned to the farm to care for her aging parents in 1964, never herself to leave or marry. She was the last living family member of her generation.
I shall remember her sweet demeanor, quiet and servant like. A rare thing to witness.

and in the morning of my life

 

Desperado

For a fleeting five minutes I held the Nikon D7100 in my hands. It should have been the happy culmination of a frustrating process, but it wasn't to be. Earlier, I got the I don't give a damn anymore blues after Nathaniel left for Biloxi. I boxed up the Nikon D5000, D40, 18-55VR, 55-200VR, 501.4 and 18-55non VR with batteries and cords and sent them to Adorama. It ended up Adorama would only give me $315 for them. At that point I should have said No Thanks!, but I accepted and they credited my card. They were not even going to give me that much until I told them I was trying to order the Nikon D7100, to which Mr Gold(fine name) offered me last months quote. He had said prices had gone down since last month.  So I ordered the D7100 body only for about $800. Today Melanie got wind of the charge on the card and said among other things, how do you plan to afford it being you only are going to be working two more weeks, doctors bills,etc? So, I called Adorama and got Mr Gold and said, was it possible to get the merchandise back? He said all had been sold except the 55-200. Great! So I called to cancel the D7100, which they wouldn't since it had shipped. So, I perused the site and wanted to order a D5100 upgrade from what I had for 400something, but decided instead on a D3100 with 18-55 for about 349.00. It has all the guts of the D5000 I had only thing going for it is its lighter. Does not have the articulating screen. So I boxed up the D7100 and at 3:30 will take it to UPS and return it, losing about 12.oo to ship it back.
Seems I will never afford the body I want, one that will allow me to meter the old lenses I have. Oh well, its only a body. I shall wait and perhaps fortune will smile and I will be able to afford the D400 if Nikon updates it. It does not help the I don't give a damn's though since Nathaniel left.

Annie May

In the narrow alley way between Valerie's Boutique and the House of Bargains, there is a tombstone. Wife of M.L.Callahan 1890-1920 is inscribed on the side of the soft stone. On top the words Annie May. And thus the mystery. I have challenged my historic sleuth  friend Harold Murphy to try and locate Annie May and some of her history possibly. Was the stone placed here as a prank?  The Callahan family were some of the first pioneer family to move into the Columbia County area. One of the Callahan's was a first cousin to Lincoln, living to the age of 105 in 1955.
I trust that Harold will find something about this Annie May.

Come Clara

 

by john clare

Eighty-four and I am not too old to cry
To wake late at night shivering in bed
Hearing those black coal cars passing by
High up on that steep Crumpler mountain.

I dare not wake mamma down the hall
Soon daddy will slip out through the kitchen
before the night shift whistle post siren calls
His Crumpler to Northfork bus line day to begin.

My door creaks and daddy whispers,
Come Clara Jean
I rub the nights tears on the pillow quickly
Forgetting the chilly night of dreaming
For today I get to take fare for daddy!

It matters not to us that mamma will fuss
That's the Dodson in her we easily forgive
only a facade of outer hill born gruff
As she secretly loves our puppies and kitties.

South of the old whistle post is the church
Through the frosted window a tall figure stands
Its the preachers son eight years my younger
Just arrived from outside Welch in Coalwood.

He is so handsome with the wavy black hair
And today he rides the bus over to Bluefield!
I try and compose as I take his script fare
He sits right behind me as glances I steal.

He is not at all like the boys of Crumpler
In those gleaming eyes stirs grander dreams
Beyond the dark shafts to searching for cures
With music in those eyes...how they gleamed!

Did daddy know today little Jerry would ride?
That I would love this young man from that day?
Knowing  he would not always be by my side
That life was more than taking company script pay?

The other night I heard the door creak softly
Come Clara Jean
I could not tell if it was daddy or Jerry
It's been so long and I am always so cold
And even at eighty-four
Tell me I am not still looney for all these tears!

Word arrived yesterday that Gerald Looney passed away
in Woodland Hills, California surrounded by family.
He was merely a boy of seventy-six
A distinguished doctor from John Hopkins and Harvard
While little Jerry found no cure for his cancer
 He found a cure for the shivering tears of
Richard Oranders girl
Clara Jean.

Five Shoal Shots

Attempting to capture water movement in bright sunlight.

 

 

 

 

To end of days

to come to end of days
to pitch the tent beside the trail
above the night hawk wails
Pileated screams of
Go away!
Away!
To rise upon dawns chill
Creep past Leviathan sleeping still
The journey to Metanoia has begun
The never ending path toward Sun.

the floods

 

Keel Lions

by john clare

When shoals are swollen from the downward flow
of Okeefenokee storms
With rapidly rising rapids sanding shores smoothly worn
Polishing to razor edge the limestone knives unsheathed underneath
Slitting open spilling upon the shores gear scattered asunder
While lurking upon higher ground in palmetto thickets
long thin lines
snaking through the pine and sweet gum reptilian-like
Etching a tail furrow down only to disappear at the
edge of tannic and sand
What creature is this that surfaces from a calm flowing
To emerge again upon the foamy down current side?
The old timers who have dwelt long beside the roaring
Call them Keel Lions
akin to the Ant Lions who make their inverted pyramid traps
along the path
Capsizing the unsuspecting creatures that stray into their lair
To surface far beyond the shoals as discarded limbs
remnants of broken watercraft
That dared take the watery path to avoid the
deadly Keel Lions.

Swine Squeal

by john clare

Drowned by the Shoals constant churning
The high pitch squealing of the swine
Deliverance a silently horrendous hope
As below rocked the empty boat
Bobby and the boys not seen since Friday
Sheriff Bullard assuring us its only a drunken spree
That soon they will emerge from the
swollen Suwannee downstream.

Turn

by john clare

And as the Sun arises toward the East
We turn our faces toward the West
For how can we face such sacrifice
We the deserving of the Tumi knife
And as the water and blood merge
Beams of radiant light like words are heard
And we turn to the East
Bow our knee and see.

Easter Sunrise

Rushed down to Watertown Lake to view the sun coming over the horizon. The dark clouds above the sun resembled to me Christ on the cross with a bent down head and outstretched arms.

On Mount Carrie

 

So Sorry

 

Nathaniel
Please forgive Pappa
that pappa
wasn't there
when you woke
(Julia told me you went all through the house and yard calling for me)
I knew
Nathaniel
when I laid you down
for that nap
that it would be the
last time
ole Pappa would hold
you
that you would move out
to Biloxi
and if I ever saw you again
the memory of
Pappa in your
little two year old mind
would be all but gone
that with each week apart
from you
You would tire of calling
for Pappa
and soon not call at all.
I cannot tell how how it hurt
to lay you down on that pallet
It will always  hurt
I will never get over
the fact your mother and father
caused this separation