An early morning walk in the southern Appalachians immerses me in wonder. The sun hasn't yet risen over the surrounding mountains, their tops mostly shrouded by fog. Dripping from an overnight rain, trees and wildflowers wear muted colors that gradually intensify as daylight strengthens. A few songbirds twitter tentatively, then swell into a chorus.
It’s such fun living in a rural community that knows how to celebrate its people, its roots, and life! The town square in Hayesville, North Carolina is “THE” place to be on a summer weekend. It’s here we bring our lawn chairs and catch up with new and old friends as we congregate for Friday night concerts, holiday parades, and special events.
It seems that Americans have lost much in the decades since my youth. Our nation has never been perfect, but there have been times throughout U.S. history when our government cared for and worked to better the conditions for “We the People.” Of course, there are other times, such as in recent years, when the government seems to care only about the wealthy, and works to suppress and intimidate the people.
Last week I interacted, from a safe distance, with two falling trees. Driving on old US Highway 64 as an intense thunderstorm wound down, I stopped behind the blue flashing lights of a sheriff’s patrol car. I rolled down my window when the young deputy approached through the rain.
Persimmon Tree Magazine published my contribution to the Forum section of their Diamond Jubilee issue. The topic: The Assault on the Cultural and Intellectual Life of America—our collective trepidation about the future of art, culture, and learning under this regime. You can find my two cents here, about ¾ of the way down the page, and read the other contributions, too. We are all elders, and I'm grateful for the platform.
I’m not a poet, but my friend, Carroll Taylor, is. She’s been demonstrating different forms of poetry lately, and I’ve been paying attention.
“Dear Folks: Letters Home 1943-1946, World War II” chronicles the experiences of George David Geib, a pilot in the US Army Air Force during World War II. In his letters home, Geib vividly describes his training, travels, and wartime service, providing an authentic and detailed account of military life during that period.
An early morning walk in the southern Appalachians immerses me in wonder. The sun hasn't yet risen over the surrounding mountains, their tops mostly shrouded by fog. Dripping from an overnight rain, trees and wildflowers wear muted colors that gradually intensify as daylight strengthens. A few songbirds twitter tentatively, then swell into a chorus.
It’s such fun living in a rural community that knows how to celebrate its people, its roots, and life! The town square in Hayesville, North Carolina is “THE” place to be on a summer weekend. It’s here we bring our lawn chairs and catch up with new and old friends as we congregate for Friday night concerts, holiday parades, and special events.
It seems that Americans have lost much in the decades since my youth. Our nation has never been perfect, but there have been times throughout U.S. history when our government cared for and worked to better the conditions for “We the People.” Of course, there are other times, such as in recent years, when the government seems to care only about the wealthy, and works to suppress and intimidate the people.
Last week I interacted, from a safe distance, with two falling trees. Driving on old US Highway 64 as an intense thunderstorm wound down, I stopped behind the blue flashing lights of a sheriff’s patrol car. I rolled down my window when the young deputy approached through the rain.
Persimmon Tree Magazine published my contribution to the Forum section of their Diamond Jubilee issue. The topic: The Assault on the Cultural and Intellectual Life of America—our collective trepidation about the future of art, culture, and learning under this regime. You can find my two cents here, about ¾ of the way down the page, and read the other contributions, too. We are all elders, and I'm grateful for the platform.
I’m not a poet, but my friend, Carroll Taylor, is. She’s been demonstrating different forms of poetry lately, and I’ve been paying attention.
My short story, The Man with the Silver-Handled Mop, earned a “Staff Favorites” designation in Carolina Woman’s 2025 Writing Contest. I’ve experimented with fiction from time to time, but this is my first published piece. I won’t be abandoning nonfiction, of course, but it sure is fun to try new genres.
I’m thrilled to share some exciting news—my short story Cinder Lake has just been published in the newest anthology from Old Mountain Press, Mountain Lakes! 🌲📘
Ankles swollen, shortness of breath;I need exercise.In March, daily walks begin.Dread soon gives way to awe.
(May 18th sparks some intense memories. This excerpt from a chapter in my upcoming memoir explains why.)
I’ve always said I don’t really like poetry very much. That’s not exactly true. More accurately, I’ve always been a tad afraid of poetry. As a nonfiction writer, I find prose quite comfortable. Poems . . . not so much.
On my morning walk today, I noticed tulip poplar (Liriodendron tulipifera) flowers for the first time. The tree itself is easy to identify, even for me, a transplanted ponderosa pine forester from the West. It’s a lovely, tall shade tree with distinctive leaves.
Four of my writer friends and I collected medals last Friday in the Cherokee/Clay Senior Games Literary Arts Division. Fun for all! My piece, Geronimo!, captured gold in the Life Experience category and my short story, The Last Roundup, netted silver. My essay, 20/20 Hindsight, scored gold, as well.
Last week felt summer-like, with temps creeping into the low eighties. That ended abruptly when a cold front swooped in, dumping nearly four and a half inches of rain. Behind that: frost.
North Carolina’s official state flower has made its annual appearance in the woods behind my home. According to the state extension, flowering dogwood (Cornus florida) is a woody, deciduous, showy, understory tree in the dogwood family (Cornaceae) that is native from southeastern Canada through eastern North America to eastern Mexico, where it is commonly found growing in woodland margins. This small tree grows 15 to 25 feet tall and is quite tolerant to heat. It has a low flammability rating, which is important to this old forester who lives in the wildland-urban interface of the western NC mountains.
March 21 is celebrated as the International Day of Forests. The Society of American Foresters newsletter notes: “In 2025, ‘forests and foods’ is the theme for the day, celebrating the crucial roles of forests in food security, nutrition and livelihoods. In addition to providing food, fuel, income and employment, forests support soil fertility, protect water resources, and offer habitats for biodiversity, including vital pollinators. They are essential for the survival of forest-dependent communities, particularly Indigenous Peoples, and contribute to climate change mitigation by storing carbon.”
The current state of national and international affairs causes me to reflect on how dramatically my outlook on life has changed over the past seven decades.
Carroll Taylor and I enjoyed reading last weekend at City Lights Bookstore in Sylva, NC. We hope that Cedric, the tuxedo cat, enjoyed it, too!
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