An Unusual Swirl

        I’m always watching the sky for signs of approaching weather, interesting cloud formations, the chance of a rainbow, and I’ve seen them all.

But I never saw them all rolled up into one unusual phenomenon, as I did Sunday night. As a heavy thunderstorm was approaching from the West, I  first noticed at the very edge of the storm cloud an unusual stream of color, a mix of pink and blue. More like a ribbon than a rainbow.

I watched it for a while, and over time the colors kind of swirled together, as if they were being stirred up/ Reminded me of the great spot on Jupiter, then it took on the shape more like an eye, with streams of color visible above and below it, swirling around a focal point.

The pictures don’t do it justice, of course, but at at least convey’s a sense of what I saw. Click for the larger picture and you’ll have a better idea) Not sure what it is. My best guess is sunlight being dispersed through clouds at different levels, at different angles, to create this multi-hued sense of motion. That’s my guess, anyway.

But being so unusual, I took this “eyebow” as some good omen.

The Smithville Jamboree

It’s Jamboree time here!

This time of year Smithville, county seat of our county, invites everyone in for the Fiddler’s Jamboree and Crafts Festival. This is the 39th year for the event. It’s the biigst thing that happens all year in these parts, draws tens of thousands over its two day run.

Young cloggers take the stage to dance to some good old time music
at the The Smithville Fiddler's Jamboree and Crafts Festival.

The Jamboree was our first introduction to the area way back in 1977. We’ve been here that long. A third of a century.

Over those years I developed a real fondness for the music the Jamboree celebrates: old time bluegrass and mountain music still popular throughout the South. All acoustic: guitar, banjo, mandolin, upright bass, dobro, dulcimer, and the fiddle of course. 

I now know many of the old time standards contestants play during the various events. Can even strum a few myself on the guitar. One of the joys of country living is to sitting on the front porch in the evening, watching the hills and hollows slip into darkness, strumming some chords on the guitar.

There was a time when that was the only regular entertainment folks in these parts could enjoy, after a long hard day’s work. The Jamboree helps keep those traditions alive.If you're ever in these parts the weekend nearest the Fourth of July it’s worth the trip to Smithville. AN dif you don’t know what clogging is, well, y’all come.

Huckleberry season

The soil here on the ridge where I situated my office is highly acidic. Without a good dose of lime and fertilizer it’s not conducive to much in the way of fruits and vegetables, except for the native wild blueberry, better known as the huckleberry.

It’s a deep woods plant here, usually an intermittent shrub found in laurel thickets. Years ago one of those hucklberry bushes established itself in the woods I later cleared as a garden spot. I somehow missed it, I’m happy to say.
It’s right at the very edge of the vegetable patch outside my office, and thriving in the full sun in a way it never could in the woods.

This time of year, early to mid June, it’s fruiting in abundance. Takes a lot of work to gather a cupful of these pea-sized blueberries, but I’m rarely that determined. Whenever the mood strikes, I’m more likely to take a break from my desk, step outside and nip a handful or so. Then, pop them in the mouth for a sweetly tart bit of refreshment.

There’s more huckleberries to be picked every day until the season run its brief course. Plenty to satisfy me and the parade of birds which make their way to that bush throughout the day for the seasonal treat we share.

Funny how time slips away...

That song came to mind when I checked on my last entry. That’s a thing about blogging. Hard to keep at it, especially when it’s more of a personal journal, than anything else.

But time does slip away until you realize it’s gone. Thirty one years ago this weekend the eldest of our children was born, at home in our log cabin in these Tennessee hills. Back in those days we were still fresh from the city, enamored with a lifestyle that was more like camping than anything we’d experienced.

By the time our son arrived we had electricity in the house, a bulb and an outlet in each of the four rooms. We still drew our water from a well with an old windlass and bucket. And the boy, like all of our children, was delivered by a midwife. My wife’s decision, home birth,

The birth of any child is a magical moment, one of life’s simple and essential miracles. The first time you experience it completely overwhelms you with emotion and appreciation of the ones you love.

It was a cool night in May, much like we’re having now. My wife was overdue. The daughter of the neighbor up the road had delivered her baby a day earlier. They shared with my wife a bit of their womanly wisdom: if the baby’s ready, a little castor oil will bring it on.

At 9 my wife took a tablespoon or two then lay down.‘ Around midnight her water broke, and then began our wonderful ordeal. She suffering the pain leading to the miracle event, helped by her mother, sister and our midwife. I was more or less the amazed bystander. At 3:15 our son officially arrived.

I came away convinced that if it were up to men to have babies there wouldn’t be any. There’s nothing in our life histories to prepare us for that kind of pain.

But what a reward motherhood must be.

I can still hear the first scream of our newborn son at this world. And I can still see the shriveled old man in the new born babe fresh from the womb, a life of possibilities.

We had five more children, all at home. Four of those six were born here in our log cabin in the woods.

31 years later the youngest is just about to enter eighth grade, his nearest brother graduating high school Friday night.

31 years raising children. It makes a house a home.

And it’s funny how the time slips away.....

An Easy Hike to Burgess Falls

My hiking buddy and I spent a rainy Sunday afternoon at Burgess Falls, a state natural area bordering Putnam and White counties near here. It’s a great place fora family trek to the outdoors any time of year, but because of the weather we had it to ourselves. Passed only one other hiker during our three hours there.

There’s a couple of short trails. The main trail, mile and a half loop, winds along the Falling Water River and three small water falls. The main event is Burgess Falls itself, a picture perfect waterfall. You can climb an enclosed stairway along the bluff, then a rocky trail down to t the base of the falls. In summer, it’s a great place to swim, or just get cooled in the refreshing mist.

We hiked the river as far down as we could and past the remnants of two hydro-electric power plants which once provided electricity for nearby Cookeville. The first of these, nearest the falls, is pretty dangerous as the concrete floor ahas rotted through. Stay on the trail. The foundation of the second, further down stream nearby, is still intact, and there’s odd pieces of high equipment lying around for your speculative pleasure—try and figure out how they were used.

Back on top, you can follow the service road back, and there’s a ridge top trail look that leads you to some nice vistas of the gorge below.It’s a flat run through the woods. Both the river trail and service road trail have one steep climb, otherwise it’s a n easy jaunt in the woods for hiker’s young and old.
At the parking lot there’s picnic shelters and a children’s playground.
All in all, Burgess falls is a nice place to spend an afternoon, with some great scenery, in any season.

The Thaw....

Finally a day that feels like early March. Actually it’s been warming a few days now but we’re finally hitting stride after what has been an unusually cool winter. Not that we had a lot of snow, but the two small snows we had lingered for days as temperatures barely pushed past freezing.

In the woods, I’ve got my sap buckets set out on the maples. Been making syrup for more than a week now, we probably have a solid quart of maple syrup— that would mean I’ve gathered at least 40 quarts of sap. There’s a 40 to one ratio of sap to syrup, so that means we’ve been doing a lot of boiling.

Process pretty easy: bore a hole into maple tree about two inches, insert some sort of spigot or pout to catch and direct the sap into a bucket. gather sap at the end of the day and boil it down.That’s all there is to making maple syrup. This year I tapped five or six trees.

Over the weekend the ground actually thawed enough that I could fire up my old tiller and turn my garden sports. Not much of a gardener really, but it gives me a real sense of reward to sow a few seeds each spring, then watch the grow. And the harvest — no matter what it is, when you grow something yourself — it always tastes better.