Billions of voices
Cries out for a dialogue
Lost in the sound of machines
What to you is just trees and bugs
Is home to us
One species hears its’ own dialogue
As it re-creates nature in its’ own view
We never take the time to hear, all the others’ dialogues
In the cycle of life
In the orbit of earth
In its’ position to the sun
A leaf emerges
It has the wonder
To take light, water and materials
To create nourishment
For the tree to grow
It is nibbled, chewed, sucked and burrowed
Food for many others
Until near the seasons’ end
As the color and moisture
It falls to the earth
Where it continues to provide
Life in the soil
And the substance
For the new seasons’
That will cycle
A silhouette sails above
Its’ shadow follows
On the ground
Thru the clouds
Up to a blue sky
And to the stars beyond
My tale begins with a city guy (me from NYC) who moves his family to the woods (NH), without a clue. It has been 37 years now and in some ways still clueless.
I had finish a jobs’ program as a boat carpenter while living in NY. Whereas we spent most of our free time camping and exploring upstate NY. Why not move to the country?
So heading north to New England, finding a job in a boat yard
I brought the family here and we spend the summer camping, while I worked and looked for an apartment.
The job was okay, but trying to find an apartment with 2 girls and a dog was a problem.
Places were either willing to take the kids, but no dog or take the dog but no kids.
It wind forcing our hand, if we decided to stay we would have to look for a place of our own or move back to NY.
We did find a place 6 acres out in the woods, a little more than 6 miles from town.
To the town of Farmington, where it just had its’ first murder in 22 years, death by bow and arrow.
Where the principal of the school where my girls wind up going, asked how we had come to moved to the end of the world?
I know I have have lost most of you who have moved on to better blogs, but for the few reminding here is the meat of the tale.
Once we were settled in and we started to travel the area, we started to notice that more than half the folks mailboxes around here had the name ‘Fosters’.
Now you would expect in a place where generation after generation still living in the community, there be a lot of folks with the same name, But the ‘Fosters’ were everywhere.
Us having just bought a home (a shack really) with plan to build our house the following spring. We had to wonder,
Did we make the best move? Was there a lot of in-breeding going on? Did we move too far into the woods?
It wasn’t until a few weeks later in a conversation with some folks at the town dump. I asked why there were some many Fosters’. Well the laughter began by all parties but me.
For as it turned out it wasn’t mailboxes with the name on it, but newspaper boxes for the the ‘Fosters’ Daily Democrat’ a daily paper in these parts.
My only defense is to say is that we didn’t have newspaper boxes in city,or having grown up on papers with names like the ‘Post’, ‘Daily News’, ‘Herald’, or the ‘Times’ who ever heard of a newspaper named ‘Foster’, so how would I know?
We all have our tales, whether we share them or not. I might do some sharing as time goes on.
Thank you for staying and listening, I really am harmless.
It is on those rare occasions
When you come upon something unusual
A gathering of ducks
On the side of the road
Why were they there?
What were they discussing?
Pleasure to see
Thankful they didn’t mind
While I got out my camera
And capture the scene