We arose early this morning, since we had the day off together, and decided to take a day trip to Asheville, NC. The animals weren't as quick to rouse as we were, but who can blame them during hurricane season?
My daily consultation of The Old Farmer's Almanac yielded this tidbit: today is the start of the annual migration of hummingbirds. The ones up north, in Canada and beyond, will begin moving southward to warmer climes for the winter. Our regulars will not begin to move just yet, and in fact will likely hang around until at least early October. We may see some extra diners at the little bird-stop just off the back deck as weary travelers stop by for a drink and perhaps a brief soujourn. And then, finally, our little companions will leave us until next spring. MeeMaw plans to leave the feeders up and filled until late October, in case we have any stragglers who come through and need a good feeding on the long journey down to the negev.
One of our stops in Asheville was the Tobacco Barn Antique Market, which is a vast array of used goods in, well, an old tobacco barn. One could easily spend all day in there, browsing and deciding. We ended up with a mere two books, one for each of us. MeeMaw's was a selection of stories about the Ozarks, one of her favorite places on this earth.
My find was a slim volume of poetry. When I picked up the book, my attention was arrested by the photograph of the author on the front cover. He had a kind, somewhat sad face. The kind of countenance I think of as an "old timey" face. If you've ever seen Eddie Stubbs, the host of many bluegrass radio shows, the host of the Saturday evening Grand Ole Opry program, and the host of our beloved The Marty Stuart Show, you know the type of old timey face I mean.
The book is For All The Lost and Lonely, and the poet's name is Edward Dixon Garner. There is nothing about him on the internet, which is a shame. The brief biographical sketch on the dust jacket is all I know about the man so far. Garner, incidentally, was my father's name.
The poetry took me right away, and I stood rooted to the spot and read about a quarter of the book under the huge fan in the old barn. MeeMaw came and examined the book, too. She insisted that we get it. I'm so glad she did.
The poem that resonated most strongly with me is titled "Flight," and I wanted to publish it here, for what should be obvious reasons.
Flight
Instinctively the migrant knows the hour
To spread its wings to make the flight afar.
The route is charted by some secret power,
Unknown to all but whence such powers are.
High the bird rises, circles, and is gone
Straight toward the winter haven where, secure
Against the rigors that with winter dawn,
It finds the warmth that southern skies assure.
So, like a migrant, when the air shall chill,
And time's leaves fall...the hour for flight appear...
The soul shall rise and circle, then by will
That calleth all things home, be drawn to where
No winter waits, no blasts, no snow, no cold,
But lo! Green pastures and the Shepherd's fold!
~ Edward Dixon Garner
copyright 1961
Rest well, loved ones.
~ PeePaw
