Astro

 Astro

It was one of those ignoring of the many warning flags. There we were in the “new” I-75 Motors showroom, Powers Service had just sold to The Crapps in Live Oak. Earl Smith the closet epileptic I once worked with at JCPenney was our salesman. There were supposed to be deals. Somehow we thought we needed to trade our Mazda sedan from Summers Chevrolet for a burgundy Astro. We had two young boys, we were about to get the big Collie Dillon so we needed room.

So we drove off the lot. It wasn’t long though the engine blew. There I was, driving Grandma Carters AMC Gremlin. Fortunately, Pete Crapps, whose family had bought the dealer, told us he would have the out of warranty engine replaced no charge. It was a kindness to this day I’m grateful for. We eventually traded that ole Astro, but when I see one, I think of Pete and his kindness, I think of Dillon and two boys who we could separate and have some room.

The 12th

 Friday and we will head to Williston then on to Crystal River to eat with family. It’s a cool day and I have planted with zinnia and other flowers. Melanies last day off. 

We went down to High Springs for Bev’s Burgers. It rained hard. One half inch. 

Thursday to Bronson for Mike Johnsons funeral. We missed going to Barbara Thomas yesterday. 

Scriptures

 Scriptures 

Johnclarestokes 

Eighty-four and I am not too old to cry

To wake up late at night shivering in bed

Hearing those black coal cars passing by

High down that steep Crumpler mountain

I dare not wake mamma down the hall

Soon daddy will slip out through the kitchen

Before that night shift whistle post siren calls

His one man bus line up the holler will wend.

My door creaks and daddy whispers, 

Come Clara Jean

I rub the night tears on the pillow quickly

Forgetting the long night of dark dreams

For today I 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 outward hill born gruff

Allowing our many puppies and stray kitties.

South of the old whistle post is the church

Through the frosted window a tall boy stood

Its the preachers son eight years younger

Just arrived from up a ways in Coalwood.

He is so handsome with the coal dark hair

And today he rides the bus up to Bluefield

I try and not shake as I take his script fare

He sits right behind me as my shyness I try

and shield.

He is not at all like the boys of Crumpler

In those gleaming eyes stirs grand dreams

Of history and music and finding many cures

With a laughter 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 just script and pay?

In the night I hear that door creak softly

Come Clara Jean

I cannot tell if its daddy or Jerry

Its been so long and I am always so cold

And even at eighty-four

Tell me I am not Looney for all these 

tears.

Word came just yesterday that little Jerry

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

Who found a cure for the shivering tears

of Richard Orander's girl.

Blue Kentucky

 My blue Kentucky

by john cla55

As I think back to my old home of Kentucky,

bluegrass hills of white rail fences,

thoroughbred horses of the finest pedigree,

I can hear beyond the Palisades the whistle

of the coal train crossing the High Bridge,

while around every hearth in the land,

Caewood is calling as we sit on edge,

fading in and out leaving us wondering,

if the Unforgettables over Duke have won.

Empty are the streets of Harlan  tonight.

Closed the Keenland track where ran

the Men of War with all their might.

Faint in the dark March night the word

crackling smooth through all Kentucky,

 the voice of old Caewood Ledford is heard,

"Its good,and Duke wins it, 104-103.

Medusa

 Medusa 

It’s such a sad day

When long, long the beauty

Was all we saw

Under the spell

When all the while

Beneath the surface 

Did dwell

That most hideous face

Oh why now did you

Have to rear your lovely head

And now our beautiful spell

Is dead.

Shore break

 Undertow

johnClare Stokes

Lately I try and not stray

Where the rip currents 

Reside sending out to sea

The unsuspecting newbie

Where shore guards warned

Unheeded pointing 

Posted signs

Do not enter the surf sheds

Where the lost wax boards

Are stored

Salt cured wet suits dry rot

Beach boy CD's without 

a Walkman wait

But I dive in

And the urchin stings

And the sand gets in my eye

And I am carried

Beyond the breaking.

First Marathon

 First Marathon 

The year was 1984 and Bob was entering his first marathon at the age of 61. I was 29 at the time and did not think for a moment he couldn't finish. Since 1979 Bob had been running in races from 5k's to half marathons, usually winning his age group depending if Norm Fernee or Fleetwood Fesmire, his rivals, showed up. It was the inaugural Jacksonville Marathon, a flat course from Mandarin and Orange Park back to downtown Jasksonville.

A group of nearly a dozen Lake City Runners Club members anticipated the January event on the flat course, hoping to run a Boston Marathon qualifying time. Leading up to the thirty degree cold morning, we had used the Roy Benson and Jeff Galloway training plans, taking our long run to Wellborn via Lake Jeffrey, tapering we hoped without burning out and hitting the twenty one mile wall.

I did not qualify in my group that first marathon, missing by over fifteen minutes in around 3:06. I did not hit the wall. Bob ran just under 4 hours and I think qualified. On the wall in his trailer was the framed 8x10 framed finish line photo with a beaming Bob, both feet off the ground, both arms raised, joyous. It was one of the crowning moments of his long life of 93 years.

Spring

 Spring has now unwrapped the flowers, Day is fast reviving, Life in all her growing powers Toward the light is striving; All the world with beauty fills, Gold the green enhancing; Flowers make glee among the hills, And set the meadows dancing. Through each wonder of fair days, God himself expresses; Beauty follows all his ways, As the world he blesses; So, as he renews the earth, Artist without rival, In his grace of glad new birth, We must seek revival. Praise the Maker, all ye saints; He with glory girt you, He who skies and meadows paints, Fashioned all your virtue; Praise him, seers, heroes, kings, Heralds of perfection; Brothers, praise him, for he brings All to resurrection.   From the Methodist Hymnal, the words from The Oxford Book of Carols.

The left

 The futility of finding common ground

Rise

 Resurrection 

Hinds feet to high places

Hope

 Hope

Is this the opening 

we awaited

or is this the closing

we anticipated

I had a home in Doodle Land

 Doodle Land

Johnclarestokes

Can I find the place

the boys memory traces

beneath the creaking steps

where the doodle bug slept

til time for slipping slant in

sand the wandering ant

swatting yellow flies feeding

them to the ants soldiering 

not wandering from the well

marked line where larvae dwell

to emerge to choose the single

file or the cool dark dwelling

of the doodles wild.

Can I find the time 

the boy held the line

to mark the row where

the acre peas would grow

with the old dego hoe

keeping at bay the weeds

imaging himself a Yellow Jacket

halfback like Walt defeating Sneads

to hear a father call him back

from the field of dreams to the task

of making this earthly garden the

best this Wakulla soil ever knew.

Can I dwell for just a spell

to trace again that sweet smell

wafting from the off plum line kitchen

of morning bacon and pancakes

waking the boy on the top bunk

awaiting the call so he could jump

to dress and load the brown vest

with the four ten shells 

to fell the chattering bushy tails

down by the old drainage pond

the aroma of spent shot heavenly

to a boy always hungry for

the wonders doodle land could bring.