We are One Nation Under God, Indivisible.
photocopyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Monday, September 11, 2006
Labor Day
We are One Nation Under God, Indivisible.
photocopyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Ole Man River' s many brides
He came from humble beginnings: Lake Itasca, Minnesota, born tumbling over rocks I've walked across. His mission: to travel toward the equator collecting brides. They come from the melting snows of the Rockies across Nebraska joining their sister the Missouri traveling to St. Louis to meet up with him. Like a harem master he selects and collects. From up north, Canadan brides of cold, cold water come to his call.
The St. Croix bride joins him south of St. Paul, MN. The Ohio and Illinois further south. The more brides he takes, the more powerful he becomes through their mingling, joined forces. And he's used. Twenty-seven locks corral him at a level for passage. Barges bringing supplies ride his back to and fro. Local news announce his "level" daily.
Before levee's castrated him, he roamed where he pleased across Mississippi, Arkansas, Louisiana, and more. But when he gets riled up, he spills his guts on the countryside. All are reminded he's still a force to be reckoned with.
Not all about work, he moves the sand leaving huge sandbars. Visitors camp for the day and night. Pontoons pull up between the sandbars and the bank out of his swift current. People put out lawn chairs to sit in the water to cool their booty and feet. Some stand in him to their necks to visit and sip cool drinks. Sand buckets and little kids dot him. Barbecues are set out to cook hotdogs and sausages, vegetables optional.
His fish are legendary. Storytells love him: Mark Twain. The mussels are brought to the surface, their shells cut into tiny pieces, shipped to Japan, and seeded into oysters to produce pearls.
The Lord put twists and turns in his life to slow his pace. It keeps him from a straight shot to the end. He's already fast moving. Some places he twists and a piece of him goes backwards higher than the rest. It looks strange. He's busy all the way to the bottom.
Why do the brides rush to him? What's his pull? Binets? No. They'd be soggy. Freedom. He carries them to freedom, giving them to the Gulf, pleased a piece of him goes with.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
The St. Croix bride joins him south of St. Paul, MN. The Ohio and Illinois further south. The more brides he takes, the more powerful he becomes through their mingling, joined forces. And he's used. Twenty-seven locks corral him at a level for passage. Barges bringing supplies ride his back to and fro. Local news announce his "level" daily.
Before levee's castrated him, he roamed where he pleased across Mississippi, Arkansas, Louisiana, and more. But when he gets riled up, he spills his guts on the countryside. All are reminded he's still a force to be reckoned with.
Not all about work, he moves the sand leaving huge sandbars. Visitors camp for the day and night. Pontoons pull up between the sandbars and the bank out of his swift current. People put out lawn chairs to sit in the water to cool their booty and feet. Some stand in him to their necks to visit and sip cool drinks. Sand buckets and little kids dot him. Barbecues are set out to cook hotdogs and sausages, vegetables optional.
His fish are legendary. Storytells love him: Mark Twain. The mussels are brought to the surface, their shells cut into tiny pieces, shipped to Japan, and seeded into oysters to produce pearls.
The Lord put twists and turns in his life to slow his pace. It keeps him from a straight shot to the end. He's already fast moving. Some places he twists and a piece of him goes backwards higher than the rest. It looks strange. He's busy all the way to the bottom.
Why do the brides rush to him? What's his pull? Binets? No. They'd be soggy. Freedom. He carries them to freedom, giving them to the Gulf, pleased a piece of him goes with.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Monday, September 04, 2006
Bridge Tails
2006: a reunion was in order. Work had kept us apart.
We met at West Point Lake on the border of Alabama and Georgia. Miles of water invited us to play. JB inquired about renting a house boat. A 200 gallon gas tank and gas at $3.45 made the decision for us. He opted for a pontoon boat with a canopy. We sat on it after sunset watching the full moon play with the water.
Early the next morning we put on our bathing suits and hats, took our lunch, hiked down the steep bank to our dock and eased off. The lake is long, the banks heavily wooded. We took note of specific irregularities to find our way back: a crooked sign, a telephone tower.
JB maneuvered with skill. A cool breeze slipped through my hat cooling the all of me. I dozed. The slow-down, unwind, relax, let-go-of-stress speed worked.
An overhead railroad trestle marked a return landmark. We eased under and noticed it had tails. We'd never seen ropes hanging from anything, and had no idea why they were there.
On down the lake we noticed ropes hanging from an overhead highway bridge. JB spotted a bass boat tied to a tail. He grabbed one and tied up our pontoon to the tune of cars whizzing overhead. The breeze and water twisted us around, but we stayed under the road grateful for whoever thought of hanging tails. In this delicious state of limbo we picnicked on fried chicken, coleslaw and honey biscuits in two times the shade: canopy and bridge.
2013 Red Convertible Travel Series
We met at West Point Lake on the border of Alabama and Georgia. Miles of water invited us to play. JB inquired about renting a house boat. A 200 gallon gas tank and gas at $3.45 made the decision for us. He opted for a pontoon boat with a canopy. We sat on it after sunset watching the full moon play with the water.
Early the next morning we put on our bathing suits and hats, took our lunch, hiked down the steep bank to our dock and eased off. The lake is long, the banks heavily wooded. We took note of specific irregularities to find our way back: a crooked sign, a telephone tower.
JB maneuvered with skill. A cool breeze slipped through my hat cooling the all of me. I dozed. The slow-down, unwind, relax, let-go-of-stress speed worked.
An overhead railroad trestle marked a return landmark. We eased under and noticed it had tails. We'd never seen ropes hanging from anything, and had no idea why they were there.
On down the lake we noticed ropes hanging from an overhead highway bridge. JB spotted a bass boat tied to a tail. He grabbed one and tied up our pontoon to the tune of cars whizzing overhead. The breeze and water twisted us around, but we stayed under the road grateful for whoever thought of hanging tails. In this delicious state of limbo we picnicked on fried chicken, coleslaw and honey biscuits in two times the shade: canopy and bridge.
2013 Red Convertible Travel Series
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