This is the first blog post I made about Christmas on Dec. 25, 2007.
The meaning of Christmas is derived from my remembrance of the priests at Holy Family Catholic Church in Davenport genuflecting while reading John 1:14 “And the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us…” There are many translations of this verse and the idea that an omniscient God would take human form remains a compelling idea. In order for our lives to have meaning, we should live them as Jesus did, through acts in human society.
If Jesus was the incarnate God, we are something less.
If the meaning of Christmas can be found in John 1:14, how should that affect us with our imperfections?
My Christmas story is about the coffee cup that we keep in our bins of Christmas decorations. It was a gift from Jacque and printed in the glaze are five reindeer around a typewriter consulting on a message. The reindeer at the keyboard has a red nose, and must be Rudolf. On the other side of the mug are misspelled the words “Merry Christmas,” presumably typed by Rudolf. At some point I chipped the cup and each year we discuss whether we should get rid of it because of the chip. I have always said no, although I should probably let go. The chipped cup with the animals trying to put a message into human language using human technology has become part of our Christmas tradition. Because it is so similar to the meaning of Christmas, I have trouble letting go of it. We have always ended up keeping the cup and I am using it now to hold the coffee I made this morning.
We humans can use some coffee on Christmas morning, and we need to put it in something.
When I became an adult, married, and settled into steady work, it was assumed I would volunteer in the community. The volunteer impulse has its roots in the industrial period after the Civil War. People used less time to produce enough money with which to live our lives. In more modern terms, we could pay for things like our child’s college education without sacrificing a lot at home.
Perhaps the most prominent example was the robber baron Andrew Carnegie whose expansion of the steel industry made him one of the richest Americans and enabled his philanthropy to fund a number of public libraries, among other things. “The duty of the man of wealth,” Carnegie said, is “to consider all surplus revenues which come to him simply as trust funds, which he is called upon to administer . . . in the manner which, in his judgment, is best calculated to produce the most beneficial results for the community.”
I didn’t have “surplus revenues,” yet worked in jobs that created enough money to pay basic living expenses with a bit leftover. While there were limits on potential income, I was afforded regular free time and expected to use some of it to volunteer in the community. My volunteerism really took off when we moved to Big Grove Township.
I differentiate the types of volunteer work I have done since 1993. There is community work: membership on the home owners association board, election as a township trustee, and serving on the board of a senior citizen’s group. There is also what I call advocacy work: serving on the boards of peace-related organizations, politics, and two different county boards. Each had something to contribute to society. I talk about community volunteer work in the rest of this post.
Within the first year we were in our new home in Big Grove Township, I was asked to join the volunteer home owners association board and did. Any monetary considerations were insignificant. A regular person does not volunteer in the community for money. Part of living a sustainable life in rural areas is contributing to the general well-being, I believed. I felt blessed and had to give back to the community in which I lived.
Home owners’ associations get a bad rap. In our case, we managed the association like a small city. We provided a public water system, sanitary sewer district, road maintenance, refuse hauling, and real estate sales and purchases. Over time, we upgraded the roads from chip and seal to asphalt, dealt with changing government standards related to arsenic in drinking water, reduced the number of wells from three to one, complied with changing Iowa Department of Natural Resources standards for wastewater treatment plant effluent, handled a lawsuit, and coordinated activities like road use and maintenance with neighboring associations. If the board doesn’t do these things, they don’t get done. Everyone is the better for such volunteer boards. I served, off and on, for over 30 years. This was the beginning of a long period of volunteering in the community.
In 2012, when only one candidate was running for two township trustee positions, I ran a write-in campaign and won the election. Being a township trustee included managing emergency response and a volunteer fire department with other townships and the nearby city of Solon. Toward the end of my tenure, we formed a new entity to manage these functions. We maintained the local cemetery and supervised a pioneer cemetery where the first person to die in the township was buried. This work helped me understand how tax levies work and how they were used to support things the county did not, things like a small fire department or saving someone’s life in an emergency. There was only a single conflict during my time as a trustee, about the main cemetery. All the trustees showed up at the cemetery to resolve a dispute over a burial plot. No one wanted the job of township trustee and someone had to do it, so I stepped up.
When the local senior citizen’s group had an opening on their board, I volunteered and became its treasurer. This lasted about two years and provided insight into this segment of the community. Everything we did, from providing community meals, to giving home-bound people rides to medical appointments, to arranging outings around eastern Iowa, served an often-neglected segment of the population. It was a great opportunity to learn about the life of our senior citizens before I became one myself.
I am satisfied this activism did some good. I still believe it is important to stay engaged in the community.
Our child brought home some unused bankers boxes which I quickly put to work storing all the stuff piled on these two tables. This is a place to layout projects. Importantly my writing project as I head into the final stretch of book two, but also a place to empty boxes and go through contents for disposition. A person needs surfaces like these.
The back surface is the oak desk I bought when I returned to Davenport after military service. It has been resting in this spot since 1993 where I assembled it after moving into our home in Big Grove Township. The front one is what appears to be the top of an old drafting table I bought at auction, standing on two saw horses I built. They have not been this cleaned off since we lived here.
With the sorting surfaces I’m ready to get back to writing.
I edited the outline for Part II of my autobiography yesterday and determined the break in the narrative will be when our child leaves home for college, and then leaves Iowa altogether after graduation. This decision has been hanging over me all year and for where I am in the narrative it is the right choice. So, chronological narrative through becoming empty nesters, and then being left behind by our progeny.
I’m still fussing with the order of chapters after that, yet it will include; development of the kitchen garden, community volunteer work, board of health, bloggery and social media, my first retirement, the year 2010 (which I believe was pivotal in multiple ways), newspaper writing, the environment, farm work, and maybe other chapters ending with new beginnings after the coronavirus pandemic. My problem is support documents and artifacts are mixed in with everything, with limited visibility. Enter the sorting tables.
I’m working on the same type of organizing surface throughout the house. In the garage I put everything on existing surfaces and set up a folding table. Now I need to organize. It’s the same thing: I want visibility of what I have so I can effectively use things. The major bedroom project was similar with the bed serving as the organizing surface. My clothing is now sorted and put away. Outdoors, I have a couple of places that serve as sorting places. Those change each season as the garden gets planted. Having a sorting station or surface made my life better.
It rained Monday night. We need rain. Indoors I’m ready to go with my newly cleared sorting surfaces.
Restaurant where we held our 55th year high school class reunion on Sept. 25, 2025.
The combination of a punk reaction to my influenza shot and massive intake of information at our high school class reunion led to Saturday being a challenging day. I made it through the fog and by 4:30 p.m., felt like doing stuff. In quick succession, I finished yesterday’s post, canned a batch of applesauce and apple juice, and worked on laundry I started in the morning. In retirement, that makes a busy day.
Our time together at our high school class reunion Thursday night was precious. I don’t want to let go of the conversations. There are only so many of the 8.2 billion people on this jumping green sphere with whom an individual shares a life’s experience. Grade school and high school mates are unique in that regard, in my stable culture, anyway. Through conversation I became aware of developing a tunnel vision of my own history by focusing on a subset of experiences to produce an autobiography. The reunion opened my eyes to a broader experience that exists, of who I was and who I have become.
When we dig ourselves into a tunnel of memory, it seems useful and important to find our way out into our broader experience. I believe the brain captures our experiences yet some of them get relegated to places where they don’t get our attention. Too, our way of seeing filters out parts of our experience so we remember only the filtered events. John Berger said what I am trying to say more directly in his book Ways of Seeing:
Seeing comes before words. The child looks and recognizes before it can speak. But there is also another sense in which seeing comes before words. It is seeing which establishes our place in the surrounding world; we explain that world with words, but words can never undo the fact that we are surrounded by it. The relation between what we see and what we know is never settled. (Ways of Seeing, John Berger).
Our class reunion helped me be more aware of the surrounding world, one that is specifically relevant to me and my classmates.
In addition to memory, my writing focuses on journals, letters, photographs, and blog posts created over a period of fifty years. For every detail captured, there are multiple that exist elsewhere if I can summon them. Talking to people with shared experiences is one way to do that.
A five minute conversation listening to a classmate that worked for an insurance company for 40 years, or another who lived in California for a similar amount of time then returned to Iowa and married a classmate, are ways to do that. Reading an email about how one classmate recruited the widow of another to attend is the same. The easy familiarity of one with whom I played basketball in the grade school playground is another. Spending time with someone who was a neighbor to a close friend I lost in an auto accident shortly after graduation is another. All of these remind me of the broader, yet common world we inhabited, at least for a while. We now inhabit the present together, at least on Thursday night we did.
I don’t seek to wax nostalgic about my high school experiences. The recent conversations remind me of who I once was and help to become a better me in the present. It’s no wonder I don’t want to let go.
An early reader of my autobiography asked about this paragraph.
When I was born, Davenport was already a tired town. I hadn’t realized it, of course, because my family life was positive and supportive. I felt I could be anything I wanted, and this notion was reinforced once I started school. I grew up in a time of hope, despite challenges. We had vague knowledge of Davenport’s beginnings. I came to believe while being from there, I was not of there. (An Iowa Life by Paul Deaton).
“I am most surprised by your statement that you did not believe you were ‘of there.’ Looking for more explanation here,” they wrote.
In response, I wrote:
My mother and father brought a defined culture with them when they moved to Davenport and I was born. I came up in that culture, which for Mother was based in rural Illinois where she was born, and for Father, it was in western Virginia. In going through the history for this book, it occurred to me that I did not experience any culture indigenous to Eastern Iowa, but rather what my parents brought with them and lived. Yes, I was from Davenport, but not a person who grew up in a culture that was local. I contrast that with Provincial France where people are a literal extension of the soil, the sea, and the air. Mine was a distinctly American experience. (Letter to a friend, Sept. 6, 2025).
When I re-write the book, which I will once its companion is finished, I plan to add this explanation. As long as we live in a consumer society where the work to produce our lives lies in places, corporations, and people with whom we have no relationship, except for a commercial transaction, we cannot be of there, much though we yearn to be.
Grandma Sarah Elizabeth (Dean) Miller’s bentwood rocking chair made from willow. She was my great, great grandmother. Photo taken by the author in 1983, Cox Hollow, Wise County, Virginia.
Sometimes we would go on a trip and take photographs. In fact, in my time, a trip and a film camera seemed to go together. Because I was able to purchase a camera with money from my newspaper route, I took photos when on family trips. When Mother and Father went on a trip they would take my camera. You go on a trip, you take some photographs to develop and show the folks back home. When trip photos got processed, we would sort and edit them. Sometimes we made them into an album. Simply put, trip photography was a cultural behavior with a beginning and endpoint and fixed technology for a trip’s duration.
I’m speaking of the pre-internet days. We got our first home computer on April 21, 1996. We didn’t do much with online photography until May 3, 2008 when I bought my first digital camera to make it easier to post on social media platforms. Back then, the process to put print photographs online had some obstacles, importantly, the lack of a scanner, which was expensive equipment. In 2025, with mobile device technology, that is all pretty seamless. It was not so in the 1980s and ’90s.
This photograph of Grandma Miller’s rocking chair was from a trip my spouse and I made to Virginia in 1983. The image records the artifact. There is a backstory. We both sat and rocked in the chair. We had a discussion about it with my great aunt Carrie who had possession of the rocker when we visited. We discussed it being made from local willow trees. I’m not sure, but believe I have a photograph of Grandma Miller’s daughter, Tryphena Ethel Miller sitting in it. (Spelling is “Tryphenia” on the 1940 U.S. Census). The chair is both an Appalachian artifact and a family heirloom. Forty years later, I don’t know what happened to it, although it may still be sitting on that front porch in Cox Hollow where we first saw it and took this photograph.
On that trip, my great aunt said she did not want her photograph taken. So many years later it is hard to remember the conversation. I believe it had to do with the Appalachian belief or superstition that there was a connection between a photograph and one’s soul or spirit. I was not trying to steal a part of Aunt Carrie’s soul. I respected her wishes and did not take a photo.
Also on that trip, my uncle, spouse and I visited Grandmother Ina Elizabeth Addington’s grave. She died in 1947 of food poisoning. She was also the granddaughter of Grandma Miller. My uncle got teary eyed while we were there visiting his mother, so I did not take a photograph of the grave marker just then. We returned the next day for that. Discretion is an important part of trip photography.
While trip photographs serve as a form of aide-memoire that conjures our living memory of what happened, so often they get separated from memory and stand as orphans. Their dependence on the photographer and the specific trip is a consideration in curating any photographic collection. In this case, I will likely put all the 1983 trip photographs that are not in an album in an envelope together and label it. Likewise, when considering which images to keep and which to label by writing a short note on the back, we can make a big difference when the photographer dies or leaves images behind. Deciding what to do in cases like this is a main task of this project.
This photograph has a date of July 1983 printed in red ink on the back. I added the following text: “Grandma Miller’s rocker. Made of willow. Grandma Miller was Tryphena’s mother.” A person needs to know more than a little context for that to make sense. Compared to most prints I have, those are a lot of words. Working through how and what to write on the back of prints is another main task of this project.
I could say a lot more about trip photography. As an organizing principle, it just makes sense to put all the images captured on a specific trip together. That doesn’t answer the question of passing along one’s heritage. I need to flesh this out in a future post.
~ Read all the posts in this series by clicking here.
It was hot and humid outdoors all day Tuesday. I managed a hike on the state park trail between thunderstorms. A little after 10 a.m. I drove across the lakes to the wholesale club to secure provisions. My usual three-pound can of generic Colombian coffee had increased to $20.99 from $13.99 the last time I stocked up, a 50 percent price increase. The tariff on Brazilian coffee goes into effect on August 1, after which it will cost even more. I did not replenish inventory at $20.99.
At the end of June, I replaced the whole house water filter. Yesterday I sat down to order a replacement and the new price was $20.19. In February I bought the exact same part for $13.40, a 51% increase in 5 months. I only get two of these per year but this increase and others like it will make household financial management more difficult. It is a preview of what life under the oligarchs will be like.
The garden has me distracted from work on my autobiography. There is so much produce to process, there seems little time for anything else. To preserve the harvest, immediate action is required, so writing is pushed back. In the annual cycle of my life, this is a feature, not a bug. Our lives would be the worse without the garden.
Hours in the kitchen enable my thinking about life and writing about it. I am certain I have at least one more book in me as the urge to write an autobiography has been with me as long as I can remember. At its core, writing autobiography is part of a life well lived. Once I finish and get a copyright, what then?
I envision creating a new document, using the first two books as a base, to which I add autobiographical information and stories. The published books will stand on their own as moments in time, yet my story will continue to evolve as long as I live. Part of it is finding aspects forgotten during the first telling. Part of it is recording new insights on the same stories already told. It will be a continuous work in progress that may never be published the same way again. It will be a never ending memoir.
There are other books I imagine publishing. The most obvious one is collections of my essays first published on this blog. There is enough here to make a book about local food. There is another about sustainability. While I’ll cover the coronavirus pandemic in part two of my autobiography, there is a much longer story to tell about its impacts on my life and on society more generally. That story is just being revealed. Whether I get to any of this is an open question.
For now, I continue to process fruit and vegetables so we’ll have something for our dinner plate long after the frost comes in October. As the harvest winds down, I’ll work again on my memoir. I still hope to finish the draft by the end of year holidays.
Big Grove Township was established before Iowa Statehood. The first sawmill was built here in 1839 by Anthony Sells on Mill Creek. Put the big groves of trees together with the sawmill and you have us. The oak, walnut, hickory, ash, elm and cottonwood that once thrived among numerous pure springs were gone when we bought our lot here. What dominates is the culture we and others brought with us to an area where all trees indigenous to the Northwest once existed in abundance yet no longer do. There is something essentially American in that. We moved to Big Grove Township in August 1993.
There is a subdivision named Mill Creek today, suggesting this history. Throughout the area, people refer to early settlers and builders of homes instead of the people who now own those homes and live in them. The names Cerny, Beuter, Andrews and Brown persist, as does the more recent name of Don Kasparek upon whose former farm our home is situated.
On the vacant lot we purchased, there were scrub grasses and a lone mulberry tree. The tree appeared to have been planted by a bird’s droppings while it perched on a surveyor’s re-bar marker. The ground had a high clay content which suggested Kasparek had removed the topsoil before subdividing the plats. When he died in 2003, I recognized him in our association newsletter. We speak of him from time to time in the neighborhood, although not always in a positive way.
I looked at an old picture of a building on Main Street in Solon, the nearest city. In sepia tones, seven teams of horses and wagons are lined up in front of the building on the dirt street. We can make out the lettering on the shop windows: Cerny Bros Grocery, Cerny Bros Hardware, and Cerny Bros Feed. While the roads have been paved for many years, much of downtown and the surrounding area resonates with the area’s origins in history before automobiles.
We built our home during the record-breaking floods of 1993. Governor Terry Branstad described the extreme weather event as “the worst natural disaster in our state’s history.” At one point that summer, it rained 50 out of 55 days. The Des Moines Register published a commemorative book titled Iowa’s Lost Summer: The Flood of 1993. Extreme weather delayed construction of our home that summer, causing us to stay with relatives and in motels for about a month after we moved from our house in Indiana. We finally moved in, the same day technicians were hooking up electricity and cable television. I was used to severe flooding from growing up in Davenport where the 1965 Mississippi River flood broke records. I was not used to flooding, 1993-style.
I couldn’t believe who I was expressed itself in any of local history. My culture was what I brought with me, rooted in coal mining, factory workers, farming, home making, and the rural cultures of Virginia, Minnesota and Illinois. Our history as a family goes back on both Jacque and my families to the Revolutionary War. My line in Virginia goes a hundred years prior to the revolution. This seemed to have little relevance to local culture in Iowa.
That my ancestor Thomas Jefferson Addington is a common ancestor to the Salyer girls of the Salyer-Lee Chapter 1417 of the United Daughters of the Confederacy stands in contrast to the story of Maciej Nadolski working in coal mines in Allegheny, Pennsylvania after the Civil War and then buying land from the railroad in Minnesota. What of my father’s birth in Glamorgan, Virginia? What of the suppression of Polish culture by the Russians after 1865 that led to a massive migration of Poles to North America? If I weren’t here, we wouldn’t speak much of these things in Big Grove Township. Perhaps with time we will.
Dear Dennis,
The pioneer spirit! So much of popular culture lauds these people. Their hard work, and inquisitiveness have been amalgamated into a hagiographic portrait: the very founders of modern society. I take exception to this, rather, the importance and interest of the pioneers is over-emphasized. They struck new settlements in the wilderness, stayed 3-5 years, then sold out to move to Kentucky, then Indiana, then Iowa, then beyond. Restless, not enduring, their influence has been too much. I’d rather look at those who followed in their footsteps. Those who took the broken wilderness and made something of it, in many places the wilderness is, figuratively, still broken, transients residing there, waiting development. (Letter to Dennis Brunning, April 19, 1986).
If the 1980s was a time of our getting started, the 1990s were a time of work and supporting our family. We saved for our child’s college, and for our retirement. During the flood, we established ourselves. The time here was one of making a career and making time for family. We bought the home we could afford, and proceeded to fill it with boxes of stuff, many of which we do not now have a clue about what is inside. We are working on that as I write.
We took vacations, supported our child in high school activities, and took them to college. I worked for the income but took two long hiatus periods because of a nagging dissatisfaction. I had a retirement party and a cake in July 2009. We had been able to establish a financial foundation that, while not luxurious, was okay. All three of us were trying to make our way in a world that did not appear to care whether we succeeded or failed. I believed we were succeeding.
Iowa was one of the last areas settled by horse and wagons. If the United States is provincial when compared to the cultural centers of Europe, what then of us, twice removed from Europe? New York and Washington seem as removed as Paris and Bonn. So, culture in Iowa, even as we sit in Big Grove Township is not an indigenous thing. It is derivative, just as the language I write in is English. What I do, and experience from that point of view is indeed, as so many have said, provincial. But what about this? I cannot say because my life is based on study of western civilization. My view is it is no less pure, and beautiful and useful than the rigid cultures of Europe or the East Coast of the United States.
When I wrote journals, they were not the kind written by Samuel Pepys, or Henry Adams. They do follow journal forms as they came down. To say something new, and private: a creation in its own right. That’s what my writing was about. If it accomplishes nothing more than the calming of a Sunday afternoon, then it will have been of some use.
Creativity in Iowa often takes something of outside origin and incorporates it into a new creation, that is fed from the soil yet showing the genetic traces of the ancestor. This journal might be recognized as something it is not by an easterner or a European. Though nature has presented what it will, we must and will nurture nature’s presentation to our own new, creative intentions. I did not recognize this as we moved to Big Grove Township in 1993, yet that’s how things evolved.
By Aug. 6, I had begun journaling again:
I stopped keeping a journal some time ago. But now, in the basement of our unfinished house I take pen to paper and begin it anew. Here, in Johnson County, I hope for good things to take place.
I notice now… the ringing in my ears, the sounds of birds, and a car now and then driving in front of the house. It is a quiet place. There is much to do to make it a productive place. (Personal Journal, Big Grove Township, Aug. 6, 1993).
In late Spring 2025, while I’m digging in a garden plot or walking on the trail, my mind is consumed by how to pull everything in my autobiography together and bring the narrative to a close. Up to the time we moved back to Iowa, a chronological narrative seemed appropriate. Beginning here, in this place that was a vacant lot when we arrived, life got complex to an extent a time-based narrative doesn’t really capture those 32 years. There was no single narrative. And so it shall be in these closing chapters of this book.
Taking time from writing my autobiography is not a clean break. While I’m digging in a garden plot or walking on the trail, my mind is consumed by how to pull everything together and bring the work to a close. Up to the time we moved back to Iowa in 1993, a chronological narrative seemed appropriate. Beginning here, in this place that was a vacant lot when we arrived, life got complex to an extent a time-based narrative doesn’t really capture those 32 years. There was no single narrative.
Thanks to another low-wind, warmish, and dry day I had time to myself to consider the bigger picture of what I am writing. That and get the next big plot turned over. Well, by the time I finished this, I had turned it over with a spade:
Plot No. 3 spaded.
I read Lawless: How the Supreme Court Runs on Conservative Grievance, Fringe Theories, and Bad Vibes by Leah Litman this week. She points out how the U.S. Supreme Court takes more and more power unto itself without substantial resistance from the other two branches of government. While today the president is ignoring some of their decisions, whether there has been a Democrat or Republican as president, the Supreme Court is calling the shots in society through jurisprudence, according to Litman. (Major questions doctrine = good grief!) The attention hound of a president distracts from this very real center of power among the six Republican-appointed justices. If you are following the U.S. Government in 2025, consider picking up a copy and reading it. It informs what is going on in the news in real time. Few books I know are like that.
Today is the fire fighters’ breakfast at the fire station. The menu is simple, but not vegan or particularly vegetarian. I’ll go for my annual dose of pancakes and orange juice. I expect to encounter many I know so it’s not so much about the food. It’s about joining together as a community. We need that now more than ever.
Editor’s Note: I’m still on short posts while I focus on the garden. I have three main plots to go to call it planted. Wish me luck!
The Big Oak in Thomasville, Georgia. Photo Credit – Wikimedia Commons by Carla Finley
A foundational childhood memory is driving with my family through South Georgia and seeing Spanish Moss hanging over U.S. Highway 319 between Thomasville, Georgia and Tallahassee, Florida. Here is an excerpt from my upcoming autobiography where I wrote about this.
Our family drove from Iowa to visit Tallahassee, Florida, the place Father lived after re-uniting with Grandfather after his release from prison. Family lore is Grandfather’s conviction for draft evasion was a misunderstanding. He hadn’t meant to be a draft dodger during World War II, according to his late son Eugene. Apparently, there was a problem with the U.S. Mail service, he said. Father spent time as a teenager in the area and graduated from Leon High School. He then enlisted in the U.S. Army with his brother Don.
That trip was to visit relatives in Wise County, Virginia, according to a conversation with Mother. The Tallahassee stop was a side trip, although look at a map and see it was not on the way. I don’t recall whether the memory occurred southbound or northbound, maybe both.
I sat in the back seat of the family automobile as Father drove on two-lane Highway 319 where Spanish Moss hung from oak trees with branches extending over the road. I suspect it was live oak trees, yet I don’t know. Mother was in the passenger seat, I was in back with my brother and sister. Except for Dad, we had never seen Spanish moss before. We did not have that in Iowa. We visited the plantation where Father stayed, the high school, and maybe stayed over with a relative, I can’t remember. These events and the long trip at slow speed along U.S. Highway 319 rolled into one with my trips commuting back and forth between Tallahassee and Thomasville for work.
For three months in 1997 and 1998, I was assigned to a logistics project in Ochlocknee, Georgia. I flew home from Tallahassee every other week, driving the same road I had as a child, U.S. Route 319. Oak trees lined the highway, their branches leaning over the highway were hung with Spanish moss. I lived there long enough to recognize other flora and fauna, in particular, pine forests and pecan plantations. I made this regular trip between Ochlocknee and Tallahassee for most of my stay.
The main memory, of this drive is essential. It is an unchanging remembrance of something seen as a child in a way that shaped me. It has no time or place. Some days I don’t know if it’s real. It is the human condition to believe it is real, and eternal. So, I do.
Journey Home 
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