Church lady

What to write this glorious morning? It is impossible to see the sunrise, not just because of the tall trees revealing little of the horizon, but because the land and sky are covered in such a greyish film that looks like weak powdered milk and hides even the brilliance of the sun.

When the sun does break though, it is well past sunrise, and even then the mist persists curling around the trees like campfire smoke after the sky turns a clear soft cloudless baby blue and the sun shines bright.

I wish I could identify the songs of the birds or other creatures that sing the sun into the sky. One this morning let out the “wah, wah” of a colicky baby; another sounded like a series of three static whistles, like someone calling for a dog; now there’s something that just constantly click, click, clicks.

Then the melodious songs, that are high and clear, or low and long.

What a joy to be able to listen carefully and only hear the sounds of the forest.

There are only three rv’s here this weekend, one for the beleaguered southern white boys who are working on the pipes, the other the old white straight couple I met the previous nite, and the last straight white couple who are camping in the handicapped spot.

The workers have left early again and this time I caught a glimpse of the wife, who is also white – they do take her with them, relegated to the back seat of the battered white 4-door pick-up that belches loudly, struggling to make it up the little incline and spewing thick black smoke.

I am surprised and a little disappointed to see she is dressed incongruously like a lady on her way to church in a burgundy suit jacket and matching hat perched on greyish hair short and styled, neatly groomed and jewelry-ed – not conducive for working in ditches.

Maybe they drop her off in a office - or church - somewhere while they toil in the ditches. I was hoping she’d be as rough around the edges and down-to-earth as the guys seem.

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