No Shave November? Not exactly. At the beginning of November I started a spiritual journey of transformation from one who relies on society to one who relies on the land for sustenance. As described in a previous blog (The Dear Beard, Nov. 8) man's natural rhythms which parallel nature's are mostly forgotten or blocked in an effort to merely survive the life that society dictates. It's only in changing one's frame of mind or immersing onself in nature that the primitive man can again regain his natural rhythm (and priorties for that matter.) Since immersion reqires on-site failure, I opted to change my frame of mind. Making an abstract concept tangible, I decided that a symbolic statement like growing out a November beard would prime my natural instincts. Well, tonight I shaved it all off in the wake of a miracle.
This was opening weekend of Oklahoma's deer gun season. Feeling lucky, or perhaps wanting to hedge my bets on selecting the sex of the deer that was to pass my stand, I opted to buy both a buck and a doe tag. My original intention was to butcher the first deer myself, something I have never done but have longed to do, so that we could have meat in the freezer for this winter. Being so fortuitous as to harvest the first deer, my intention then would focus on the philantrophic nature of the holiday season which is engrained in every red-blooded American, and not just during the holidays. Using the popular program Hunters against Hunger, I would then donate my second deer (again if I were lucky enough to get this far) to a processor who would then give the meat to needy families. Naturally, this entire plan was contingent on my harvesting two deer in two weeks. A few days before the start of the season, and at my wife's urging for she doesn't care much for venison, I decided that I would donate both deer. After all our needs are already provided for.
So Saturday morning I rose at five o'clock, made all preparations, rubbed my beard for good luck, and found myself sitting in my ground blind at 6:30. Legal shooting light officially began at 6:42 A.M. and eighteen minutes later my doe was on the ground. I had planned on one shooting lane and hoped for luck to bring my deer into that perfect position a mere forty yards from where I crouched behind some farm machinery. Thankfully God provided: the doe stopped in the right place and my bullet found its mark. In the process of field dressing the animal, my wife called and informed me of a family in need. It wasn't a large animal, weighing ninety pounds dressed, and of that ninety pounds, an estimated thirty-five percent of it was meat, but that meant that the family would eat through the holidays and part-way through the winter. And when I dropped off the deer at their doorstep to be butchered, a family of six with very little income was there with smiles of thanks that couldn't be substituted for a thousand words of the same. I felt a little like Ebeneezer Scrooge when he has the poulter deliver the prized turkey to Bob Cratchet's family. It was a lot more personal than putting change in the offering plate.
So it really surprised them this morning, the Sunday morning prior to Thanksgiving, when the offering plate went around twice. A buck this time, fifteen minutes later than the doe the day before, stood in the exact same spot and again the bullet ran straight. Being much larger than the doe, this animal will surely feed them through the winter and well into 2010. Again the smiles on the "Cratchet" children did my soul well for God always provides. Going to church on Sunday is important, but doing God's work is like putting your money where your mouth is. Never have I had a deer hunt run this smoothly nor have I had success come so easily. And lightning never strikes twice in the same place. So to have two deer on the ground twenty-four hours and fifteen minutes apart under these circumstances is nothing short of miraculous. That's how I see it through my human eyes, but I know that it's just part of a day's work for the Big Man.
And so on my way home this afternoon, I recalled writing that I would have to find a reason to keep my beard after deer season, but for one of the only times in my life (and the first time in many years) I felt a strange sense of completion. Mission accomplished. There was now no reason to keep the fuzz. Going into this Thanksgiving week, I thank God for all the little "miracles" that sustain those in need.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Pre Mature Christmas Spirit Disorder (PMCSD)
"PMCSD Pandemic Strikes America"
Public service announcement from the Centers for Disease Control
Ponca City, Oklahoma (AP)
It's late at night. You lie awake, staring at the ceiling. There's the crackling of firewood in the fireplace. The smell of a cinamon candle, long-ago extinguished, still scents up the house. In the fridge, clear in back on the bottom shelf where nobody else dares to look, resides a pint of November egg nog that seems to be calling your name. From up in the attic the fake branches of the Christmas tree seem to be scratching at its cardboard box, itching to be released. From the roof you hear a thump and what appears to be a slight jingling of bells. Could it be real, or could your ears be playing tricks on you?
You turn on the television and the first thing that appears is a commercial for a popular clothing store. Not a big deal until you see ten dancing actors decked in Christmas sweaters, scarves, and wintery boots, jitterbugging to an upbeat version of "Rocking Around the Christmas Tree." You find yourself bopping to the beat. The egg nog calls your name. There's a pecan log roll hidden in the "what-not" drawer, whispering sweet nothings to you. You have a wrapped present hidden in a place nobody else would dare to look- the crawl space under the house. Insomnia leads you to your movie collection where A Christmas Story jumps into your hand. The clock on the wall announces that a new day has just begun. The calendar on the wall by the DVD player proclaims that Thanksgiving is still a few weeks away. You hold the DVD out, the DVD player's open mouth begs you to put it in and press play. And then you stop in your tracks. A cold, sober thought strikes you. You vocalize it:
"I have a problem!"
What you have just read is a true story. It's happening every day. If this sounds familiar, you or someone you know could be suffering from Pre Mature Christmas Spirit (PMCSD) a medical condition that affects the centers of the brain which sense tidings of comfort and joy. PMCSD is not a joke, nor should it be taken lightly. The CDC has classified it as an pandemic that is sweeping the nation. The onset of PMCSD tends to coincide in timing with the flu bug, only its symptoms differ greatly. Such symptoms include but are not limited to the following.
1) Frequent trips to the Wal Mart seasonal department to contemplate buying a new Christmas tree or a CD such as A Chipmonk Christmas.
2) Staring enchantedly at fantasy Chrstmas villages in little mall giftshops.
3) Hallucinations of talking snowmen.
4) Shouting out popular lines from Christmas movies such as, "You'll shoot your eye out!" while walking through Cabelas, or "Behold! The Griswald family Christmas tree!" while deer gather around your tree stand during hunting season.
5) Overwhelming desires for roasted chestnuts, cold noses, and choirs singing around fires.
Treatments vary on a case-by-case basis but popular remedies include the following:
1) Classifying the annual White House Christmas tree as a "Holiday Tree."
2) Illegalizing nativity scenes.
3) Allowing school districts to call the Christmas break a "Winter Break."
There is no cure for PMCSD. Any symptom needs to run its course. If you observe anyone exhibiting any of these characteristics, stand back and either let the episide pass or alert any trained medical personnel on the site. Symptoms tend to wear off in January, though in some tougher cases it takes the coming of the Easter bunny to get the patient to take down the Christmas tree.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Boy How I Love Fantasy Football
It's Monday night. The Steelers are playing the Broncos and are leading by a score of 21-10 with less than a minute to go. The Broncos are out of timeouts and Pittsburgh has the ball on the Broncos three yard line on a third down. There's very little tension in the air because the contest has already been decided. It would be near impossible for the Broncos to come back and win.
Option #1- In reality, all Pittsburgh has to do is get into victory formation, take the snap, kneel down on the ball, and let the clock run down to a few piddly seconds before taking the last snap. At best the Broncos would get the ball back within their own five yard line with ten seconds left, still down eleven points. Game over. Before I write down what actually happened, allow me give some other options for Pittsburgh on that third down and goal.
Option #2- Pittsburgh runs the ball up the middle with their best running back, Rashard Mendenhall, who bangs down to the one yard line, setting up fourth and goal where they run the same play. Score or not, Pittsburgh still wins the game.
Option #3- Ben Roethlisburger, the Steeler's QB fakes the handoff and runs a bootleg around the end for the score (or not.) Pittsburgh wins.
Option #4- Play action pass to the tight end in the back of the end zone for a score. If it's not open, QB takes the sack and the clock continues to run. Pittsburgh wins.
Option #5- The running back takes the direct snap from the center in a "Wildcat" formation and runs the ball into the end zone or gets stopped short. Time runs out. Pittsburgh wins.
Now I could go on and on with scenerios like this that are more likely than the one that played out, but here's what actually happened. Despite not needing to score again to secure the win, Roethlisburger takes the snap and throws a quick screen to veteran (euphemism for over the hill) receiver Hines Ward. Ward catches the ball on the three yard line, turns around to see a defender come at him to stop him short. This man at the end of his career (and more than a step slower than when he was in his prime) does his best high-hurdler imitation, jumping right over the tackler like a deer jumping a five-strand barbed-wire fence, and trotted into the end zone for the unnecessary score. I am a big Pittsburgh Steelers fan. Have been since 1978 when I was three, just old enough to start enjoying football. Steelers fans across the nation cheered wildly at the unexpected pass and score.
I screamed at the tv, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Why? Simple: I play fantasy football, and my opponent had Hines Ward in his starting line up. Before that fateful play, I was winning my fantasy football game by a score of 70-64. Every time a fantasy football owner's player scores a touchdown, it counts as six points toward the FF owner's team score that week. When Hines Ward scored on that play, one of the last of the game, and decidedly unneeded, I went from a sure win to a tie. One seemingly inconsequential play in a seemingly inconsequential football game turned my night, and season around. Instead of my record moving from 5-3 to 6-3, my record now stands at 5-3-1. Instead of being one game out of first place (which is an automatic spot in the playoffs) and playing the team directly ahead of me in the standings for the lead in the division the next week, I now stand at one and one-half games behind the leader, and with only a few weeks left in the season, my playoff chances have taken a serious hit. Big deal, right? Not when you consider that the payout for first place is $150, which would be really nice going into the holiday season. Grrrrr.
The exact opposite fate befell me a few years back. Needing a touchdown from my running back Brian Westbrook to win my fantasy football playoff game for a spot in the finals (with a payout of $300 no less!) Westbrook took the handoff from the opponent's fifteen yard line, broke free and headed untouched for the end zone. I raised my hands and cheered "YES!" from the tops of my lungs, UNTIL...
I screamed at the tv "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
See, there were only a few minutes left in the game for the Eagles. If they were to score, it would give their opponent an opportunity to get the ball back and try for the win. Westbrook knew all he needed was a first down so the Eagles could run out the clock. In what has been hailed as one of the smartest plays in NFL history, Westbrook slowed down and purposfully fell to his knees on the one yard line, one yard short of the touchdown. He was called down, the Eagles ran out the clock and won the game. And if he had been selfish like so many in the NFL and focused on his stats, he would have scored the touchdown, given me the six points, and I would have cruised into the championship game, much, much richer.
My buddy Kirk (who happens to be the one directly ahead of me in the standings) and I have a long-standing argument. He thinks that fantasy football is more about skill than luck. It is my contention that luck plays just as much a role in winning a fantasy football game as skill does. No matter who is right (I am) fate can sometimes have a cruel sense of humor. Boy how I love fantasy football.
Option #1- In reality, all Pittsburgh has to do is get into victory formation, take the snap, kneel down on the ball, and let the clock run down to a few piddly seconds before taking the last snap. At best the Broncos would get the ball back within their own five yard line with ten seconds left, still down eleven points. Game over. Before I write down what actually happened, allow me give some other options for Pittsburgh on that third down and goal.
Option #2- Pittsburgh runs the ball up the middle with their best running back, Rashard Mendenhall, who bangs down to the one yard line, setting up fourth and goal where they run the same play. Score or not, Pittsburgh still wins the game.
Option #3- Ben Roethlisburger, the Steeler's QB fakes the handoff and runs a bootleg around the end for the score (or not.) Pittsburgh wins.
Option #4- Play action pass to the tight end in the back of the end zone for a score. If it's not open, QB takes the sack and the clock continues to run. Pittsburgh wins.
Option #5- The running back takes the direct snap from the center in a "Wildcat" formation and runs the ball into the end zone or gets stopped short. Time runs out. Pittsburgh wins.
Now I could go on and on with scenerios like this that are more likely than the one that played out, but here's what actually happened. Despite not needing to score again to secure the win, Roethlisburger takes the snap and throws a quick screen to veteran (euphemism for over the hill) receiver Hines Ward. Ward catches the ball on the three yard line, turns around to see a defender come at him to stop him short. This man at the end of his career (and more than a step slower than when he was in his prime) does his best high-hurdler imitation, jumping right over the tackler like a deer jumping a five-strand barbed-wire fence, and trotted into the end zone for the unnecessary score. I am a big Pittsburgh Steelers fan. Have been since 1978 when I was three, just old enough to start enjoying football. Steelers fans across the nation cheered wildly at the unexpected pass and score.
I screamed at the tv, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Why? Simple: I play fantasy football, and my opponent had Hines Ward in his starting line up. Before that fateful play, I was winning my fantasy football game by a score of 70-64. Every time a fantasy football owner's player scores a touchdown, it counts as six points toward the FF owner's team score that week. When Hines Ward scored on that play, one of the last of the game, and decidedly unneeded, I went from a sure win to a tie. One seemingly inconsequential play in a seemingly inconsequential football game turned my night, and season around. Instead of my record moving from 5-3 to 6-3, my record now stands at 5-3-1. Instead of being one game out of first place (which is an automatic spot in the playoffs) and playing the team directly ahead of me in the standings for the lead in the division the next week, I now stand at one and one-half games behind the leader, and with only a few weeks left in the season, my playoff chances have taken a serious hit. Big deal, right? Not when you consider that the payout for first place is $150, which would be really nice going into the holiday season. Grrrrr.
The exact opposite fate befell me a few years back. Needing a touchdown from my running back Brian Westbrook to win my fantasy football playoff game for a spot in the finals (with a payout of $300 no less!) Westbrook took the handoff from the opponent's fifteen yard line, broke free and headed untouched for the end zone. I raised my hands and cheered "YES!" from the tops of my lungs, UNTIL...
I screamed at the tv "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
See, there were only a few minutes left in the game for the Eagles. If they were to score, it would give their opponent an opportunity to get the ball back and try for the win. Westbrook knew all he needed was a first down so the Eagles could run out the clock. In what has been hailed as one of the smartest plays in NFL history, Westbrook slowed down and purposfully fell to his knees on the one yard line, one yard short of the touchdown. He was called down, the Eagles ran out the clock and won the game. And if he had been selfish like so many in the NFL and focused on his stats, he would have scored the touchdown, given me the six points, and I would have cruised into the championship game, much, much richer.
My buddy Kirk (who happens to be the one directly ahead of me in the standings) and I have a long-standing argument. He thinks that fantasy football is more about skill than luck. It is my contention that luck plays just as much a role in winning a fantasy football game as skill does. No matter who is right (I am) fate can sometimes have a cruel sense of humor. Boy how I love fantasy football.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
The Deer Beard
"It's a deer beard."
That was my response to my wife this morning when she asked me why I wasn't shaving for church. I had managed to get away with a week's worth of growth before she noticed it, or at least commented on it. It's no secret in the Shelton household that my wife prefers me clean shaven. And it's no secret that at certain times of the year, for reasons that I can't explain, I must grow out facial hair. It's that simple. For ten years now I have had an unexplainable urge to sport a beard around November and through December. Now psychologists could have a heyday with this kind of primal thinking, but having just read the book Wild at Heart I got my answer, or at least the answer that I always felt was now put into words. But before I go into that, let me chronicle my excuses of the past.
In 1997 I took a fly-fishing trip to the San Juan River in NW New Mexico with a college buddy of mine a week before Christmas. Knowing that the mountains are a cold place, especially in December, I reasoned that I needed warmth for my cheeks. After all I would have on a coat, gloves, and a stocking cap. The lower half of my body would be in waders, so that left my face, and the beard was born. It felt almost as if I were breaking the law. A gentleman must be clean shaven and presentable, but that's a societal rule (long-forgotten anyway) and I was heading out to the wilderness. It was a wilderness complete with paved roads and parking lots right on the river, but it's the romantic premise of westward expansion, the exploring of a new territory that hooked me.
After all, Indiana Jones never went on any adventure without his hat.
So the next year and in years since, when I have had the same opportunity in what has turned out to be a yearly tradition, the winter expedition has always been accompanied by a beard. Each city has a heartbeat and one must attune himself to its rhythms, unnatural as they may be. Patience isn't a virtue of city life. It's stop and go traffic, cursing while in line five minutes at McDonalds for food it would have taken twenty minutes to prepare while at home, if one even had the ingredients to begin with. Bell schedules at school, time cards at work, alarm clocks in the morning. All of these annoyances are very unnatural to a man with a wild heart.
A standard fishing trip may start with a twelve-hour drive through New Mexico (a state that my brother affectionately refers to as "The Way to Colorado") at seventy-five miles per hour. The driver is hopped up on convenience store coffee, Red Bull, and gut bomb burritos. He just left the impatient rhythms of the city, exchanged them for the impatient rhythms of the highway, and is headed for the trout stream where the fish work at their own rhythm. If a fisherman were to fish to the trout with the same impatient rhythm he has used in city and highway life, he's apt to get frustrated at the lack of "luck."
And so every fishing trip, the first two or three hours are usually spent fishless, trying to figure out what "the fish are biting on." In reality the fisherman just isn't on the same page with the fish. So once he gets his city casting out of the way and heads for a new hole, he in-turn gets a new lease on life. This is where "Natural Ryan" is reborn.
So my thinking was that in growing out the beard, I would be preparing myself weeks in advance for slowing down to the rhythms of the natural world. It's sort of the "working up an appetite" theory, kind of like how we listen to Christmas music weeks before Christmas, or in my case, November, if I can hold out that long.
And so every year when the weather turned cooler, instinct would kick in. The geese start to fly south, the squirrels load up on acorns, and I forget my razor. And according to Wild at Heart this is perfectly natural. Man was never meant to be strapped down by society's softening rules. Before you get the wrong idea, let me make this statement: I don't mean that Man can just go do anything he wants to like murder. That's not the natural state of Man I am referring to. It just means that Man by nature must proove himself to feel worthy, seek out adventure, smile in the face of danger, overcome obstacles. It is imbedded in a man's soul to fly in order to be a man and the hindering of a man's sense of adventure is emasculating at best. It's this sense of adventure that is tied into the natural rhythms of life outside of a societal governing body. It is this sense of adventure that makes a man feel like a man in a world where it's illegal, at least according to tv. I don't need to grow out a beard to feel like a man, but when I sigh in the morning as I get out of bed and face another day at work, it sure helps.
Hunt, fish, gather, provide, build, create, live. Those are man's natural rhythms. So when it gets cold out, one must use what God gave him. Jeremiah Johnson wouldn't have dared live in the mounatins without a beard. Heck, Chuck Norris. Need I say more?
But trying to put this into words when put on the spot is nearly impossible. It's just as impossible to try to explain this manly need to a woman, just as it's impossible for a woman to explain the womanly needs that a man doesn't understand. It's not wrong. It's just our natural rhythms and we are as subject to their laws as we are to the law of gravity.
So this December is the first time since 1997 that I won't be heading out to trout water. It just didn't work out in the scheduling. I can see this far enough in advance to be already be grieving the loss of Natural Ryan, but never to fear, deer season is only a few weeks away and with it an opportunity to get back to nature, if only for a weekend. And so in preparation for my wife's question this morning, I knew I couldn't be caught off guard and give some cheap answer like "Holiday Beard" or "because it looks better with a sweater," both answers I have given in the past. The problem is that deer season will be over when December gets here and Natural Ryan will not have migrated back to society just yet.
I still have a few weeks to come up with my next excuse.
That was my response to my wife this morning when she asked me why I wasn't shaving for church. I had managed to get away with a week's worth of growth before she noticed it, or at least commented on it. It's no secret in the Shelton household that my wife prefers me clean shaven. And it's no secret that at certain times of the year, for reasons that I can't explain, I must grow out facial hair. It's that simple. For ten years now I have had an unexplainable urge to sport a beard around November and through December. Now psychologists could have a heyday with this kind of primal thinking, but having just read the book Wild at Heart I got my answer, or at least the answer that I always felt was now put into words. But before I go into that, let me chronicle my excuses of the past.
In 1997 I took a fly-fishing trip to the San Juan River in NW New Mexico with a college buddy of mine a week before Christmas. Knowing that the mountains are a cold place, especially in December, I reasoned that I needed warmth for my cheeks. After all I would have on a coat, gloves, and a stocking cap. The lower half of my body would be in waders, so that left my face, and the beard was born. It felt almost as if I were breaking the law. A gentleman must be clean shaven and presentable, but that's a societal rule (long-forgotten anyway) and I was heading out to the wilderness. It was a wilderness complete with paved roads and parking lots right on the river, but it's the romantic premise of westward expansion, the exploring of a new territory that hooked me.
After all, Indiana Jones never went on any adventure without his hat.
So the next year and in years since, when I have had the same opportunity in what has turned out to be a yearly tradition, the winter expedition has always been accompanied by a beard. Each city has a heartbeat and one must attune himself to its rhythms, unnatural as they may be. Patience isn't a virtue of city life. It's stop and go traffic, cursing while in line five minutes at McDonalds for food it would have taken twenty minutes to prepare while at home, if one even had the ingredients to begin with. Bell schedules at school, time cards at work, alarm clocks in the morning. All of these annoyances are very unnatural to a man with a wild heart.
A standard fishing trip may start with a twelve-hour drive through New Mexico (a state that my brother affectionately refers to as "The Way to Colorado") at seventy-five miles per hour. The driver is hopped up on convenience store coffee, Red Bull, and gut bomb burritos. He just left the impatient rhythms of the city, exchanged them for the impatient rhythms of the highway, and is headed for the trout stream where the fish work at their own rhythm. If a fisherman were to fish to the trout with the same impatient rhythm he has used in city and highway life, he's apt to get frustrated at the lack of "luck."
And so every fishing trip, the first two or three hours are usually spent fishless, trying to figure out what "the fish are biting on." In reality the fisherman just isn't on the same page with the fish. So once he gets his city casting out of the way and heads for a new hole, he in-turn gets a new lease on life. This is where "Natural Ryan" is reborn.
So my thinking was that in growing out the beard, I would be preparing myself weeks in advance for slowing down to the rhythms of the natural world. It's sort of the "working up an appetite" theory, kind of like how we listen to Christmas music weeks before Christmas, or in my case, November, if I can hold out that long.
And so every year when the weather turned cooler, instinct would kick in. The geese start to fly south, the squirrels load up on acorns, and I forget my razor. And according to Wild at Heart this is perfectly natural. Man was never meant to be strapped down by society's softening rules. Before you get the wrong idea, let me make this statement: I don't mean that Man can just go do anything he wants to like murder. That's not the natural state of Man I am referring to. It just means that Man by nature must proove himself to feel worthy, seek out adventure, smile in the face of danger, overcome obstacles. It is imbedded in a man's soul to fly in order to be a man and the hindering of a man's sense of adventure is emasculating at best. It's this sense of adventure that is tied into the natural rhythms of life outside of a societal governing body. It is this sense of adventure that makes a man feel like a man in a world where it's illegal, at least according to tv. I don't need to grow out a beard to feel like a man, but when I sigh in the morning as I get out of bed and face another day at work, it sure helps.
Hunt, fish, gather, provide, build, create, live. Those are man's natural rhythms. So when it gets cold out, one must use what God gave him. Jeremiah Johnson wouldn't have dared live in the mounatins without a beard. Heck, Chuck Norris. Need I say more?
But trying to put this into words when put on the spot is nearly impossible. It's just as impossible to try to explain this manly need to a woman, just as it's impossible for a woman to explain the womanly needs that a man doesn't understand. It's not wrong. It's just our natural rhythms and we are as subject to their laws as we are to the law of gravity.
So this December is the first time since 1997 that I won't be heading out to trout water. It just didn't work out in the scheduling. I can see this far enough in advance to be already be grieving the loss of Natural Ryan, but never to fear, deer season is only a few weeks away and with it an opportunity to get back to nature, if only for a weekend. And so in preparation for my wife's question this morning, I knew I couldn't be caught off guard and give some cheap answer like "Holiday Beard" or "because it looks better with a sweater," both answers I have given in the past. The problem is that deer season will be over when December gets here and Natural Ryan will not have migrated back to society just yet.
I still have a few weeks to come up with my next excuse.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Acorns
A few weeks ago I pulled onto our street at twilight to see three deer browsing in our neighbor's yard. Our street is lined with pin oaks that drop their tiny acorns about the time the street lights up with brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows. Of course it's not wise to park one's car in the street during the Autumn season for fear of what appears to be hail dents, but the local wildlife sure enjoy the bumper crop. So I guess it should come as no surprise to me what I ran into tonight.
I have a street course I run to stay in shape. It winds around our horseshoe, up a hill, and onto a beautiful brick street full of doctors and retirees. At the end of the street around a bend is a public garden with every flower, plant, and tree conceivable. Oaks, maples, willows and the like traverse its landscape. Directly across the street are a few houses and a church with, you guessed it, more oak trees. Tonight as I ran beneath the full moon, I heard a crash off to my right along with the sound of crunching leaves. Twenty yards in front of me trotted four does crossing the street, white flags waving back and forth with each step. Three of them high tailed it for the cover of a line of trees while one, a yearling, stopped right underneath a street light so that I could get a better look at her. If I were to look long enough, I could probably see the last fading spots of childhood.
Quickening the pace to the beat of my heart, I ran straight for her, if only for the reason that I was already heading that way. The fawn quickly found that it was alone, and when her mother snorted from a distance, she too raised her white tail and ran for cover. My breath was short and my lungs burned from the cool air, but I kept my pace anyway, my energy renewed. A deer's beauty and grace is something that never fails to excite me.
I have a street course I run to stay in shape. It winds around our horseshoe, up a hill, and onto a beautiful brick street full of doctors and retirees. At the end of the street around a bend is a public garden with every flower, plant, and tree conceivable. Oaks, maples, willows and the like traverse its landscape. Directly across the street are a few houses and a church with, you guessed it, more oak trees. Tonight as I ran beneath the full moon, I heard a crash off to my right along with the sound of crunching leaves. Twenty yards in front of me trotted four does crossing the street, white flags waving back and forth with each step. Three of them high tailed it for the cover of a line of trees while one, a yearling, stopped right underneath a street light so that I could get a better look at her. If I were to look long enough, I could probably see the last fading spots of childhood.
Quickening the pace to the beat of my heart, I ran straight for her, if only for the reason that I was already heading that way. The fawn quickly found that it was alone, and when her mother snorted from a distance, she too raised her white tail and ran for cover. My breath was short and my lungs burned from the cool air, but I kept my pace anyway, my energy renewed. A deer's beauty and grace is something that never fails to excite me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
