Last of Beautiful Days

Sunset over the burial site.

Lee enjoying one of our last drinks on the porch for this year.

Our walk yesterday was an abundance of fallen leaves. The most beautiful this year are the reddish pink sourwood ones.

My last four days drawings.

A gift from Lorraine

coptic bound botanical

book for journaling.


Another hand bound

book of spare sheets that were not

very well printed.


Bamboo and skunk tail

handmade paint brush made for me

by a thoughtful friend.


And then another

paint brush from the same maker.

This one with deer tail.


Some Journal entries.

Southern Flinders Range – Adelaide to Alice Springs – 2007

A dead level flatness of pale gold green. Some dusty green scrub and small “branchy” Eucalyptus. The cloud shadow on the Flinders make them turn a dark purplish grey. The sun where it strikes the sides of these hills and glares off the wheat fields that push their way into the trees. All of it looks thirsty and empty. The sheep are lean and dusty looking. The few spaced farm houses seem lonely. I think the women who live here miss their children – the ones who left – and I think they watch themselves and husbands age daily. No prisoners ever came here to South Australia but some may have been imprisoned by the land. A place on the edge of “bone dry” inland. Salt bush grows here and supports the sheep.


And more prompts for writing…these two were actual personal experiences…not made up, but fit perfectly for the prompts.

Write a brief scene between an obese couple.

I saw them only once at a rally for railroad buffs. They were dressed in striped engineer’s overalls, hats to match and red bandanas around their necks. As they moved toward the table I was struck by where will they fit and slid casually down to one end of the bench. They eased in on the low benches opposite one another on each side of the table, she down, but not very far down from me. I smiled, nodded a greeting and looked away. I listened to them chat excitedly to each other about the trains as they held hands across the table. At first I was struck by their size – never knew they made clothes that big! How did they manage to do anything? They must have driven here together. How do they fit in a car? Truck? Where do they sit in restaurants? There are so many doors they’d never get through. How do they manage? I know one thing – however they do it, it’s always together – one hand reaching out for the other.


The man is not crying but you know his heart is breaking – How do you know?

Homer wanted to see me privately before going back to the class. We sat opposite each other in a quiet place in the entry way. His hands gripped each other in turn on the table between us. His eyes looked first at mine and then away as the words faltered and failed.

So that is a bit more of the journal writings. I miss writing. I miss so many things. And unlike Homer, I have no one to talk to about the things I miss. The other day I received a message via Facebook that I was missed, I was loved. Did you know that a person does not burst into tears? At least I don’t, I read words and thoughts like that and those tears just quietly flow. If I have to say why when Lee asks, I can’t answer. I can’t talk. My throat closes over. I can’t breathe. It is the realization that what was, will not likely be again. I know I am supposed to be grateful to have those memories and thoughtful friends, and I am. But I miss what was. I miss what used to be. And I regret that I took for granted that my life would be the same. It is not. And when these tears flow down my face I think of the tear duct plugs that my eye doctor puts in every six months to prevent dry eyes. If he could see me in these moments he’d say, “Damn, those things really work!”

Til later.