Five to eight more inches of crystal flakes are expected today (maybe more, says someone). Two have fallen. For the moment, the air is still. The undercurrent of Opossum Run warns that when the sun has finally pushed the clouds up and away, meltwaters may move mountains.
Each time this happens, Karen and I visit our peninsula, where Elk Creek meets the James, sometimes an island, sometimes underwater. Soon after we signed the sales contract on this property, the son of a missionary/preacher e-mailed the listing agent to inquire if we'd be willing to offer a plot of ground to bury the father. Neither of them had ever lived here, but old family documents referred to settlement where "Elk Creek meets the James." No fan of cemeteries, I welcomed the distribution of ashes. A few months later, a renewed request arrived. The father had died of a heart attack. My response was the same. No taker.
In response to high water, the bottomlands will tender gifts, such as bedsprings, barrels, buckets and boats. And firewood, truckloads waiting to be cut and split. I must find some hip boots or waders so I'm ready when the air warms. Two months of unusual cold has severely depleted our woodshed.
"You're a disgrace," says Virginia. "Look at Frank and Katie and the man who lives under the giant persimmon tree."
"I know," I say. "Those octagenarians have piles that will last years sub-zero."
"You'd better get started," says Virginia.
No. I'm waiting for a few great solar panels.
[By the way, Richard lives (see yesterday's post, "Family Tradition"). He has fancied up a tent, like a tarp with sides, and was picking through the rubbish this afternoon.]
The Bowman Women; A Work In Progress
1 week ago