Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Later that same Day

I couldn't keep my eyes open one minute longer, so I hauled myself up a flight of plank stairs, and fell into that marvelous bed. This time I awoke to the smell of caramelized onions simmering in hearty beef stock. Like one of those zombie-like cartoon characters following a wafting scent of something delicious, I hauled myself down the stairs, remembering this time to duck under the slant of the roof.

If this morning was filled with bustling kitchen sounds, the afternoon is filled with quiet. I can hear talking and giggling coming from the loft. Louise is asleep in the west wing. The rest of us sit with books and/or computers on our laps. A phone vibrates, but no ring penetrates the serenity.

There is a place in Jacksonville, called Moosehaven. It's where members of the Loyal Order of Moose go to retire. I don't know what retired Moose do, but maybe they spend their days weaving moose rugs, carving moose heads out of logs and painting ceramic moose statues. I've been looking around and decided that the interior designer of this woodsy abode must have had a tragic moose-experience in his/her past. There are moose silhouettes everywhere I turn - rugs, blankets, knick knacks, even the shower curtain. Not that there is anything wrong with moose decor, its just that I've never seen so much in one place before.  I could be wrong, but I'm doubt there has never been a moose in the Peach state's Blue Ridge mountains.

Speaking of the Peach State.  Who knew so many apples were grown in Georgia.  "It appears the forest-covered county in North Georgia’s Blue Ridge Mountains is Georgia’s Apple Capital, which provides our nation with more than 600,000 bushels of apples each year. You can’t go wrong with any variety of apple you pick."  Actually, my parents did. When they traveled through Georgia on their way to and from their Smokey Mountain hideaway they always stopped in Elijay (down the road apiece) and bought apples and apple cider.  Dad liked to eat an apple fritter, hot from grease, sprinkled with powdered sugar.

In the  afternoon stillness,  I checked my e-mail. (Don't judge me!) Here's the gratefulness word of the day:
Memories of loved ones are like songs in our soul.
Margaret Wakeley

Memories of ka-thumping around a mountain on unpaved, bumpy roads, buying apples, porch rocking,  and woodsy night lullabies float just outside my heart's vision. I feel tears welling up. Then the music started. Zumba dancers begin shaking all their shakable parts. Freshly made French onion soup and homemade lasagna take my mind of being in the mountains with my parents.  It's time to make new memories. And I think this is the right place, the right time, and the right people.

1 comment:

MamaJoe said...

"woodsy night lullabies float just outside my heart's vision. "
Love...float just outside my heart 's vision. Describes so perfectly what I have been feeling lately. This sounds so wonderful!