Rambling Without Bounds

December 5th, 2009

My Dawn Suprise

12/5/09 09:01 am

I woke up this morning, looked out my window, and what to my bleary, wandering eyes should appear . . .

This isn't the first time it's snowed this year, but it is the first bit that has hung around. And more on the way in the coming days.

December 4th, 2009

Just to let my readers know, I've made some changes in the title and appearance of my blog, so don't be alarmed if it doesn't look the same. I thought I needed a change in the four or so years I've been writing. "Rambling Without Bounds: Notes from the Journey" replaces "No Mind, No Matter: Glances, Whispers, Rustlings," but I have remained more or less the same - perhaps I've grown up a bit in the meantime.

If we can't improve ourselves, perhaps the best we can do is to not create more problems.

December 2nd, 2009

Rambling Moore's Ferry

12/2/09 07:41 pm

Moore's Ferry is defined by two things. The first is geology. If you look at it from above or from a topographical map, you'll notice that the area is largely defined by wide, flat bottom land. I suspect that much of it was either under water or ice during the last Ice Age. The soil here is called loam and is very silty, the remnants of river bottom dirt. The ground here tends to be quite moist, because of a layer of clay underneath which keeps the water above. It is ideal soil for farming, and for that reason, much of the area has been cultivated at one time or another. However, I have talked with an elderly neighbor who remembers a time when much of Moore's Ferry was wooded and, to her, quite frightening as a child. Today, very little woodland stands, except for the large patch behind my home, although as I've written before, that is slowly being developed, both for logs and for real estate. As far as I can tell, neither enterprise has been very successful. While agriculture still takes place, it is basically the province of large-scale farmers who grow soybeans and corn in alternate years.

The second feature of Moore's Ferry is traffic. Interstate Highway 64 passes through our fair little valley, and over the years, as the volume of traffic has increased on that road, the noise level has increased. I can remember back in the mid-1970s when the interstate fell silent after 10 or 11 o'clock in the evening, but now, the roar is nearly constant. Also, the population has increased in the nearby community of Peasticks, so traffic along Old Sand Road has duly followed. The noise level is made much worse, especially in the summer, by a steady stream of four-wheel drive trucks with loud or non-existent mufflers and Harley-Davidson-style motorcycles. Old Sand Road has a half-mile straight stretch by my house, and it's not at all uncommon for people to "wind up" their cars and trucks and race by the house at 55 miles per house or faster. I should note that the road itself is barely two car widths wide in most places; it used to be a gravel road when I first moved here in 1974. The quality of life here has really suffered because of the noise levels.

All of that aside, in the last week or so, I have taken a couple of walks in the woods and the surrounding countryside. My first walk was November 23, the last day of gun season for deer in our county. The area sounded like a war zone during the previous week; during the first day of gun season, I counted 17 shots in 30 minutes in the morning while I walked Max. I had hoped that people would have hunting out of their systems by the last day. As soon as I got to the fence row between our property and the next, a deer bolted across the trail about a 200 feet in front of me. This was a sign of things to come. It was a cloudy day, drizzling, but not so much as to get drenched. I made my way to the other side of the woods, which opens onto a soybean field. I heard a the bark of a dog nearby. Suddenly, just outside the woods, a shotgun went off. I could feel the shock vibrate the air around me. In those kinds of situations, it pays to keep a cool head, so I just stood my ground and figured out exactly where the shot came from. I was certainly visible, wearing a maroon hoodie, a red/white/black flannel shirt, and green army pants, so I wasn't particularly worried about being mistaken for a deer. I merely made my way to the base of a tree and sat down and continued listening. Five minutes later, I heard an ATV start up and take off, and shortly thereafter, two does came trotting by within 50 feet of where I sat. There was a slight rain beginning, so that probably dampened my scent to them. They wandered off unconcerned, and I did as well a few minutes later. On my way back to the house, I met the deer again, and I wished them good luck until the sunset.

My second walk was this past Sunday. The weather was cloudy but warm, and I thought it would be nice to spend the afternoon in the outdoors. I took roughly the same route as before. My original plan was to find a nice tree to sit down under and take a nap, but once I got to moving, I decided to walk further, to the Licking River. There are still enough woods in the area that one might walk unseen for several miles, if he is judicious about where he goes; this might also be construed as trespassing. I made my way across an open field, back into the woods, past nice deer trails that have been undisturbed for years and a glacial slough pond.

I crossed a road and then passed over into another patch of woods. Dogs had been barking as I crossed the road; I knew there was a house nearby, but I don't think I actually disturbed the dogs. And once again, more shotgun blasts. I was never in any danger, but it got me to thinking that I had better change my route again. When I'm in the woods, I practice the golden rule - I don't like to be disturbed, and I don't like to disturb anyone else. I kept moving and eventually came to one of my favorite spots in Moore's Ferry, an open field with an unblocked view of Spurlock Gap, which is across the river in Fleming County.

For my own peace of mind, I decided to try something new - I would follow the river all the way to a place where it meets Indian Creek, and from there, I would follow Indian Creek back to the main road and walk home from there, avoiding the woods entirely. It was an excellent plan.

Here is a short video of quiet, undisturbed bottom land along the river.

Views of the river - quiet, clear, deep.

Indian Creek.

In all, I walked a little over 5 miles and made it home in time for supper. I was scratched up pretty badly from all the briars and brambles along the river, and I managed to snag my jeans on a barbed wire fence. I was tired, but the good sort of tired. I might do it again some time.

November 18th, 2009

Not There, a poem

11/18/09 09:38 am

The wisdom I often need
is not found in books.
I still make that mistake
despite repeated disappointments.

Books have very much to recommend them.
You can usually carry them with you.
Some can even set you straight,
but you cannot lean on them.

Scriptures are no substitute for listening with your own ears
to the desert-hot divine wind.
Hui-Neng, it is said, ripped to shreds
the words of Siddhartha and his learned commentators.
I like books too much to do that,
and the Nazis set a bad example.

Wisdom is something like music played -
the action of the breath or the hands in concert with some artifice -
not merely the notes on a page.
You get better the more you practice.
Don't tell me you have no rhythm.
One day you will play by ear.

November 12th, 2009

Corey Road, a Poem

11/12/09 07:50 pm

I took a walk last night
to avoid another clear awakening borne of loneliness and too much reading.
The still, crooked silhouettes of trees
were made shadows by a waning moon.

I was haunted
by diamond facet monsters of perfection
who followed close upon me
somewhere between my left ear and the middle of my brain.

A thin coat and a flannel shirt seemed
barely enough to keep the season at bay,
and my muddy boots were
strangely out of place there.

A sinewy creek ran between
the cleavage of two knolls.
My feet dangled there, and
I submitted to the talking cure in which I only listened.

Barbed wire and fence posts and cleverly grazed fields
- so that there was no doubt.
I reached down and touched the broken pavement - half civilization, half neglect -
and suddenly uncovered the forgotten stakes urged at my life's start.

Rambling Without Bounds

Cecil Lawson

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