I could write about another Saturday morning where the kids are up before the last owl in the neighborhood sounds and bored before I get the chance to brew coffee, but I will save that for another day when I identify the said owl(s) or brew coffee quick enough. I could write about seeing my first turkey vulture while exclaiming, "OMG, there is a turkey vulture!" I had no idea there was, indeed, a turkey vulture. I thought I named it myself. I felt proud until I googled it.
But today's favorite moment didn't come from hearing owls or seeing turkey vultures or the kids sleeping past 7 a.m.. My children never sleep in. Nor do I think you are all bird watchers and are interested in Owls or Turkey Vultures. I didn't spot either today. My favorite moments came from the most unexpected visitor.
We were all in the yard picking up, tossing footballs with our children and friends, playing with leaves in the early evening. I look down the hill, and I spot a neighbor from down the road. He is walking up carefully with a walking stick. About a yard away, he calls out, "You really do live up the hill." He gets to the boundary of our lawn and pauses. Scott and I joined him. The kids rushed in the house to gather the walking sticks he crafted for them to show him how much they appreciate his gift. I quickly rush them back into the house to put them in their safe keeping places. They are special and beautiful. Mr. Bill is self reminded he wants to make one for the little bear of our house.
What makes this moment a favorite was not only the effort he made to make it up the hill, but what he shares with our family. He is sharing stories of his Native American and East Tennessee heritage. Stories we are yet too unfamiliar with. He shares gifts from his hands in the form of walking sticks. He shares time sitting outside with my children telling stories. Teaching lessons. Tales from the past. Tonight he had stories to share that were worth the walk up the hill.
He spoke about where he grew up in the coal mining towns of East Tennessee. The stories he told could have been right out of a The Andy Griffith Show. He was a very young "dispatcher" in a small coal mining town. Scott and I looked at each other when he said the town had no segregation issues in the day, because they lived on that side of town and we lived on the other, but we all were friends and came and went as we chose. Perhaps the last part is the key as they were able to share the community? I cannot do justice to the story about the night Ms. Agnes, a colored woman, happened upon some moonshine. How the judge fined her upon her plea guilt for public intoxication - $17.50 for her and $17.50 for her dog - after the teen-aged Mr. Bill was so kind for allowing her to keep the dog in the cell with a mattress without searching if she had matches. He believes that the licence to sell moonshine by a regional distiller has hurt the locals in the mountains to sell it on their own for profit. (maybe this is why there are still dry city and counties?) He hurts for all the people left in the area he grew up on living on hope after all the coal had been stripped and there is no jobs. He is a kind, educated man with a big heart. Maybe pushing 80 years old or many more.
Since tomorrow will be nice, I will have to return the favor. We will walk down and visit Mr. Bill. I am certain he will be carving more walking sticks and ready to tell more stories. Whether his stories are from life imitating art or art imitating life, it does not matter. They play The Andy Griffith Show reruns daily on my antenna TV, but this the favored form of storytelling and most honest. There are stories to be told and need to be heard. The little things in life.
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