I Knew This Day Would Come

I knew this day would come, when I wouldn't be able to run any more. When the ice and snow would come and our country road would turn into a treacherous mess; when the mercury would dive to single digits and just walking out to the mailbox became an adventure. What would I do? How would I start my day without the two and a half-mile run? How would I get my blood pumping, my thoughts nicely aligned, my haikus written?

 

Well, I wouldn't. I'd just get up, get the kids fed, packed and on the bus (if it wasn't another --insert choice word-- snow day), eat breakfast,  feed the animals and birds, and start my workday, wishing I could still run.  And I'd go back through my photographs and remember 50-degree mornings with the sun slamming on the hills and what was left of the autumn leaves, mornings with my dog and sometimes even my daughter by my side, with the crunch of gravel and the birds flying over and the neighbors waving as they drove by. Mornings when my body reassured me it still worked just fine.

My road. How I miss it. It's hidden under a shroud of white. I'm waiting for a thaw to lift the sheet so I can see its face again. I've no doubt it's still beautiful, but I'd have to slow down to baby steps to even go out to see. Yesterday I plowed into the ditch just turning out of our driveway. The county wastes no money treating our road. My car being a Subaru, I simply backed out of the predicament.

 

 My neighbor's house, shining in morning light against cold front clouds.
 I'd never realized how magnificent his maple was until I composed this shot. A good tree can make a house without even being noticed. And this is a good tree.

 

 One of his sheds. I wish I had a shed like this to look out at. I'd put it in every painting.

 

 The whole spread. Everywhere I go, classic Ohio farmhouses like this one are being razed and burning down, replaced by spiritless modulars. There's not much money around here, the kind of money that drops mansions into cornfields, so the vast majority of our new constructions come in kit form.  They huddle on the road frontage like vinyl-sided shoeboxes, enhancing the landscape not one whit. Look how this gracious old wood frame house sits like a jewel in the fields.

 

 On this stunning November morning, I had exactly ten minutes of weak sun to work with. I saw the clouds beginning to break up, ran home as fast as I could, grabbed my camera and jumped in the car. I ran up the big hill and was in position when it broke out of the clouds. I shot and shot, and then it was over.

 

 Have you got me in the picture, Mether? Because my spotty tuxedo would resonate nicely with that white farmhouse. Keep shooting. I will look out over the meadow.

Thank you, Chet Baker. My photos are nothing without you. Just a bit of dog brings the whole thing to life.

I go to bed at night, having looked disconsolately at my swiftly returning flubber, and pray for open road.  Can a sista get a break here?

Apparently not.

Oh, by the way: I've now been blogging for five years. Imagine that. 1,232 posts, maybe upwards of 8,000 photos; ten brazilian random thoughts and a truckload of great comments from you. I look back at the 2005 archives and see that skinny puppy and those teeny little kids and marvel that it's all here to look at, but I never ever do...I just keep creating new posts. Reading even a smidge of my early stuff disorders my mind.  Someday, maybe, but not now. If you'd asked me in 2005 if I'd still be blogging in 2011, I'd have looked at you real funny.

To all you who've stuck with me, thank you. To all you who've stumbled on this site and taken the time to read the archives, thank you.  To those who've hit the "Donate" button, thank you, too. You're the laces in my sneakers, the sun on my hillside, the bluebird on my windowsill, the bat in my basement.