Most of us keep our thoughts on something in the past or thinking about the future. We only have this present moment. However you spend the moment ...the only requirement is love.

Photo by COHolley

A plane in the sky is not a great photo moment although I do like how the sun appears in the shot. This photo reminds me of something I read by Thomas Merton. The sky was still before the plane passed through and it remained still after it is gone. Perhaps a reminder to focus on the still peace within our selves, the peace and stillness is there before the situation, and within your being is there during the situation and will remain afterwards. The still and peaceful place we would reside if we were lifted up on the wings of eagels.

My husband John Stafford was a highly accomplished musician and did physical things on drums some people only dreamed of. He played double bass drums faster than a locomotive and moved the drum sticks over his drum set so fast you couldn't see them in his hands. When he played drums he drove people fast up on their feet screaming for more. He could tap dance long into his years , taught from the finest of dancers. He played violin at an early age and loved the classics. When we listened to music he would say to me " Listen, tell me what you hear, how may instruments and what are they." His heart was an orchestra.
He spent many of his last years in a wheel chair. He said to me one day in a low and gentle voice "People treat you different when you're in a wheel chair." He was saddened and surprised at the reality of it.
When you see someone with a disability don't look away, you can't hear their music but it's there, you cant see their melody but it plays. Just look them in the eye and smile.
Make the world a better place one intention at a time.

Never build your entire life around another human being. If they should leave you your life will feel like empty pockets. Have your own circle of friends. Find something you are passionate about and keep it close to you. Carry a melody in your heart that belongs to only you. Never give it all away.
COHolley

I wonder how many people were so busy today that they never looked up and saw this beautiful sky. It stopped me in my tracks... nothing but pure blue sky, soft clouds and sunshine. That pause, however brief it is, is an instant of peace. So welcomed and so appreciated.

When I was a child the bridge over these tracks was an old wooden bridge, worn and bleached out from the hot South GA. sun ,with rusty nails holding it together and a few loose boards. My grandmother lived a block from the bridge. As children, when we heard the train whistle blowing farther down the tracks through the tall Georgia pines, it was saying "I'm almost there, hurry! hurry! Im almost... there!!" We would drop what ever we were doing and run as fast as we could and stand on the bridge as the train rumble inches from our small dirty bare feet, out of breath from running so fast, and hands grasping the bridges railing. The massive power of the train vibrating through our bodies was thrilling and scary at the same time.
I don't find myself running towards life so much these days and things seem more scary than thrilling. But if I close my eyes, I find that freckled faced little girl who was happy just being Carmen and that's a good place to be, however brief my memory serves me.

New Orleans Street Car

 

These are the brass handles of seats on an old street car in New Orleans. I took this picture because I thought of all the hands that have held on over the years standing in the street car waiting for their jump off spot. All the people that have actually sat on that very seat over 150 years before, and now me after them.. Some with a burden, some with much hope and joy, most going some where, so...me with no where to go.The street car carried them through the streets of New Orlens with the smell of french pastries and shrimp creole, the jazz music flowing out of the doors of local bars and attaching itself to the filigree ironed patios and cobble stone streets. A simple street car bench touched by so many lives.

When you lose someone, when they are no longer in this world, missing them never goes away. But when you lose them and have regrets it changes the sorrow. The regret flows like a deep river within your core and it never comes to a place of still water.
COHolley

When our lives are sifted like sheaves of wheat in the wind all that remain is the love.
COHolley

Grandaddy's Catawba Worm Tree

Catawba worms are actually not worms at all, they are the larvae of a moth that only eats the leaves of a "Catawba" tree. They only "show up" on Catawba trees seasonally and only on certain trees, making them extremely hard to find. Catawba worms make for some real good fishin'.

My grandaddy sold fishing bait. I only remember one occasion when someone stopped  to buy some worms. It seemed to be something he started years ago and it became part of his routine. On the far side of the property, in what use to be the chicken yard he had large wooden beds of Red Wiggler worms , also excellent for fishin'. I use to reach down in the dark black soil and grab as may worms as my hand would hold. My grandaddy sure new his stuff about raising worms , those were some mighty fine looking worms, as far as worms go.

In the old weather beaten smoke house he had several large wooden boxes full of crickets that he also sold for bait. Going in the smoke house to look at the crickets was always a delight. The large wooden boxes were on legs so they were at a good seeing and reaching level. The tops of the boxes  had screen over a wooden frame that made for a lid. Hanging in each box  dangling from a cord was a light bulb that stayed turned on all the time.

There were thousands and thousands of crickets. The sound of all those crickets in one small smoke house was fun for the ears.

My grandaddy had a very large Catawba Worm Tree on the back side of the garden.

M.r Stone lived next door and he had a Catawba worm tree too.

Mr Stone was a thin wiry man. He wore overalls all the time. He had a plump wife that always wore an apron. They reminded me of "Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean."

Mr. Stone walked around on his property with a shot gun and occasionally you could hear him firing off a few rounds trying to kill the birds that were eating his Catawba worms.

I wonder if he really cared that much about the worms or if he just wanted to shoot that shot gun. As a child I didn't have kind thoughts about Mr. Stone, I didn't like the idea of him shooting all those birds. I figured there were plenty of worms for the birds and Mr. Stone to have all they wanted. My grandaddy never shot the birds and his tree was slap covered up with worms.

I have never seen another Catawba worm tree since those days and have never heard mention of one either.

Its just one of my memories that linger when i go back to being that young girl walking  the property of my grandparents home on a hot summer day, stopping under the large Catawba worm tree to gaze up as the sun lighting up the bright green leaves making silhouettes of Catawba worms crawling all over.