BEEN THINKIN’ ABOUT… THE END OF THE ROAD. The old road winds down the ridge and down through the holler. In the mountains of the South, “holler” just means “hollow” — like Sleepy Hollow — or, more specifically, “a small valley.” The word comes from the Old English word holh, meaning cave or hole in…
BEEN THINKIN’ ABOUT… JABBERWOCK FOG. The February rain came down, washing away the sky, washing down the dark. Fog rose in the hollers and crept up the mountains, cold wet breeze whispering in the oak trees, chill blanket on the rock bluffs dark and black with rain. Lonely piles of snow moldered. The roads slick.…
BEEN THINKIN’ ABOUT… THE MAN IN THE STORE. The old glass door opened, then closed. The air was air-conditioned cool, smelling faintly of mothballs. Long tables stretched far to the back, tables upon which were stacked work shirts, undershirts, slacks, work pants, blue jeans. The long-reaching walls of the store were lined with shelves —…
BEEN THINKIN’ ABOUT… BLEAK SUN. A winter sun set fire to the west and I stopped. For a moment, time stilled. The living room windows were dirty. The windows have needed cleaning for a season or two. Little time for that in the treadmill of surviving, responding, reacting. There are journalism notes to be thrown…