As I sit here at the dining room table and look out over the bird feeder while sipping my coffee ( really just sugar, creamer and a little caffeine) I watch a Downy woodpecker as it hops backwards down the tree to grab a seed. The Red Bellied woodpecker hangs upside down from the limb to take his share. The Black eyed Juncos scratch around at the base of the tree while the Nuthatches, Titmice and Chickadees dart in and out. The Cardinals form a line to patiently wait for their turn. Sure, an occasional Blue Jay bullies his way onto the feeder but generally there is a calm and orderly procedure that nature follows. So many varieties of birds all working together in natures harmony. They don’t care if Phil saw his shadow or not. They don’t care which party is in charge of the White House. All they care about is the free food.
Category: Non Fiction
Life in the Country, Ain’t it Grand
My wife and I have spent a good deal of our lives living between the city limit signs of one metropolis or another. As urban dwellers, we found the constant rumble of noises drifting in and out as life moves along quite comforting. But the older we got, the more we found ourselves longing for the quiet country life we remembered from our childhood days. So when we decided to retire, we wanted to move to a more peaceful setting. We searched the world over and chose this small house in the southern Missouri Ozarks and settled in for a quiet country way of life.
We were greeted on our first morning of blissful country life by the neighbor’s rooster telling us that 4 hours of sleep is enough. He was quickly joined by a chorus of dogs (at least one for every house within a five-mile radius) declaring their desire to have the rooster over for breakfast. Then it was time for every mufflerless vehicle in the county to rev up their engines in preparation for the parade down our country lane. ‘The Branson Belle’, a paddle boat on the lake ten miles away blared a horn to announce that it was time for another load of tourists. The whistle from a train crossing Hwy 248 mixed with a mooing of a hundred head of cattle, a couple dozen crows, and a few hundred other species of birds rounded out the orchestra.
But as I sit here in my rocking chair on the porch. I sip my coffee and watch the sun rise above the leafless oaks and maples. I raise my cup and give a smile. Because I know I’m home.
Happy Birthday to My Oldest Son…
Joshua – 1977…
You probably don’t remember that day. Even for me it now seems like it was another universe. It was your first birthday. We called Fort Ord California home and, as it was with most Army families, we were as penniless as the winos down along the banks of the Salinas River. Your mother baked you a chocolate cake from a .29 cent box mix and decorated it with some homemade icing. We stripped you down to your diaper and sat you in your highchair while we sang birthday songs to you. You laughed as you crumbled your cake into oblivion.
Still in the Army
Dressed in denim jackets and bell bottom jeans with colorful patches sewn over holes that never existed, we tried to be normal 1970’s youth. We listened to Neil Young, Cat Stevens, Eagles, America and Pink Floyd. Our attempt to be non-conformists only managed to create more conformity. And short military haircuts can’t be disguised in a world where the length of your hair is a status symbol. No matter how hard we pretended to be friends, it was still just a stranger that passed the hash pipe back across the table. We’d take a hit and dream we were home.
On The Train…
written while stationed in Germany – 1976
We ride the train at night. Store front signs flash neon onto our faces through the window. Red, green, blue in words we don’t know. Just four foreigners crowded in with a hundred faces. They speak in a language we can only catch a few pieces of. We get stern looks from disgusted fellow travelers each time we speak. So we travel in silence. But I know what they are thinking. They don’t need to say it. I can see it in their anger. “You’d think if they are going to be stationed here, they’d learn to speak our language.”
Jerry Brotherton 