Antiquity

Here you see High Street in Mitcheldean, Gloucestershire, United Kingdom, looking toward St. Micheal's and All Angel's church. Inside the church is a fifteenth century painting and brasses showing the original gravesite of Sir Thomas Baynham and his two wives, Jane and Alice. This is the origin in English history of the Baynham family, as they married into a Saxon family, de Dene. Somewhere in the piles of papers I have in my house is a copy of a short bit of family tree, showing the family of Geoffrey and Petronilla de Dene ("the Dane"), and as the generations pass from one generation to another, you ultimately pass to Raffe ap Enyon, who married into the family. I wonder sometimes how it was that this Welshman married into a wealthy Saxon family, whose home was the Dene Magna, which became Mitcheldean.

From there, I have a second copy of a family tree which begins with Thomas ap Enyon, whose name was changed to Baynham, as the old Welsh name was transformed into an English name forever. This is a common transformation from old Welsh names to new English names: Ap Rhys to Price, Ap Ian to Bain, etc.

The Baynhams were known for their connections to the Forest of Dean, a royal forest in the west of Gloucestershire, bordering on Wales. Beyond is Tintern Abbey, immortalized by Wordsworth in his poem. Further on is Cardiff, the capital of Wales and the largest city in the South of Wales. Beyond, on the coast, lies the port city of Swansea, birthplace of Dylan Thomas. Read "A Child's Christmas in Wales" and see the seaport in its Winter finery. It is the most poetic prose I know of.

That is my plan, anyway.

Someday, I will fly to London and take a train to Gloucester, where I will hear the choir in the great cathedral, just as Kate and I did when we heard them perform in St. Phillips Cathedral in Atlanta when Kate was very young. Perhaps, we will see the ghosts created by Beatrix Potter around the countryside near Gloucester, or hear the creak of the old wooden ships anchored in Bristol. Crossing the Severn, we might travel back in place and time to Mitcheldean. We might even stay at Baynham Farm, north of Mitcheldean. Here is an old picture of it:

A last goodbye

Last Tuesday, I was sitting in the third floor courtroom, watching the festivities, waiting for my client's case to come up for trial. As I sat in one of the few comfortable chairs in the courtroom, the judge was hearing guilty pleas for a variety of the defendants on the calendar that morning. A variety of defendants, some clad in jail stripes, others in street clothes, stood before the judge and tried to avoid the eruption of his wrath. Some more than others.

At one point, the sentencing was completed, and several of the defendants headed outside the courtroom to meet with probation officers. The others walked slowly over to one of the bailiffs to have their hands shackled for the short ride out to the County Jail.

As the shackles were placed on their hands, one of the defendants turned and looked over his shoulders into the audience. He raised his bound hands in a last goodbye to his family, a slight smile crossing his lips. I looked back into the audience beyond the bar. A young woman waved back, a mixture of affection and concern crossing her face. Her face was red; obviously she had been crying. She seemed to be trying to be brave. Both of them were.

I wondered at where this road would lead him, other than to the Diagnostic and Classification Center in Jackson and some c.i. around the state. Where would his family go? It was an awfully somber morning on the third floor superior courtroom.

Sand crystals

I drove down A1A one time and watched the sun rise
Along Cape Canaveral's beaches
And it was a bright, silver morning
The seagulls screaming to the waves
The blue-green water rising up
And slamming down upon the sands
Which were shark's skin grey in the morning light.

And each beach is unique:
The distinctive repositories of billions
Of sugar glass crystals, each different,
Though seemingly the same,
Their individuality lost among the myriad others,
A snow globe sitting upon the shelf, a scene caught
In its own wet sphere,
Shaking the crystals with my hand against the shafts of sunlight.

Chartless

Cruising
In the darkness' grasp,
Before the golden morning light
The water is midnight blue glass
And I am trusting in the pilot's hand.

Early signs of Winter in the mountains

This past weekend, after court was finally over (around twelve), we finally got on the road and headed up 400 to Dawsonville, where we stopped for provisions at the Super Kroger, then continued on up past Dahlonega to Union County and the Day cabin. When we got there, it was dark and cold in the house and we had to turn the water heater on and turn the thermostat up to warm the house.

We went to bed after a supper of soup and hot tea and when we woke up, we ate pumpkin flavored pancakes and bacon and got a big, hearty start to the morning, then Kate and I got dressed for the cold morning and headed on the road toward a place to hike in the morning.

I headed the Explorer up toward Hiawassee, then off Richard Russell Parkway toward Helen. We got to the top of the mountain and off to the left of the road, beyond the guardrail, the whole world below was gone, replaced by a thick, white cloud. Kate said it reminded her of a cartoon in which Bugs Bunny found himself outside the cartoon in a white nothingness, only to return to the visible world.

We ran out of desire to find the hiking trail and decided to drive back to Brasstown Bald. We drove back to the Hiawassee Highway, then turned right away from Blairsville toward the highest mountain in Georgia. Several miles later, we came upon the entrance to Brasstown Bald and turned up. The road headed upward to the summit. As we climbed higher and higher, all of a sudden the rain turned white, in increments, until suddenly the precipitation was uniformly white and fluffy. We were driving through a snow fall. Everything was white and silent. As we topped at the entrance to the parking area, we drove around to the guard house. I rolled the window down and the lady in the little brown house asked us if we were going to the top.

I looked at Kate as the snow blew past us. "Of course."

So I paid the three dollars to park and Kate and I left the warm interior of the Explorer and walked out into the increasing whiteness and cold. We decided to take the shuttle up to the top and hopped into the warm interior of the shuttle and rode the half mile up to the top of Brasstown Bald. As we navigated the slushy steps up to the top, we took pictures of each other as the snowflakes blew past our faces. There was not much reason to take pictures of the area around the top, since there wasn't anything else except cloud and snow, both a grey white.

We took the time to watch the movie about Brasstown Bald, where we learned that the relative temperature and climate of Brasstown Bald was equivalent to Massachusetts. Such a surprise with snow and temperatures near freezing in the middle of October.

We drove back down to the cabin and told Cindy about our adventure. The next day, the snow was gone, but Kate and I walked through the cold down to the cow pastures so Kate could take pictures of the cows, as they grazed and sat on the cold wet ground. Walking back to the cabin, we sighted a young bear scampering across the road ahead of us back to its lair in the trees. Our second big nature sighting for the weekend.

After we packed up the Explorer, we headed South toward Dahlonega, Dunwoody and home. As we passed Blood Mountain, I noticed snow on the summit. Yes, Winter comes early in those North Georgia mountains.

Early Fall drive through Middle Georgia

I was scheduled to meet with a couple for a refinance of their house in Fort Valley. Fort Valley is in Peach County, southwest of Macon. When I had the opportunity to leave the office, I headed the Explorer down Arthur K. Bolton Parkway toward I-75 South toward Macon. This was the second time I had made this trip today, the third in two days. The road was beginning to bore me.

This trip, I shot down 475 past Bibb County and headed down I-75 to the Byron/Fort Valley exit. As I exited the interstate, and passed the clutter at the exit, I suddenly broke free of the gravitational pull of Byron and drove between cotton fields, the green leaves on the cotton bushes heavy with the young bolls. The dark green leaves with the decorations of the white bolls was quite pretty.

Later, the soy beans plants were turning yellow as the season took its toll on the bean plants. As I passed mile to mile, the road became more rural and development less frequent. We finally came upon a city limits sign for Fort Valley and I knew I was close.

I navigated downtown Fort Valley, what there was of it, and turned north past a Nuway Wiener Stand to the subdivision in which the borrowers' house was located. I parked and hopped out and spoke with the wife as she ushered me into their home.

After the closing was completed, I left their house and walked out into their driveway. Suddenly, a fragrance of some unknown flowers met my nostrils. I looked around the driveway and couldn't identify the flowers which were blossoming at this time of year. A dogwood nearby was covered with its rusty leaves and the red seeds on its branches. It was pretty, but hardly the source of the floral fragrance.

I headed the car out of the driveway and back north up 3/41 toward Barnesville and home. As I drove, I could see rows of peach trees and pecan trees, scattered across the lands of North Peach County. It was beautiful. The road headed into Crawford County, then Monroe, then Lamar. Farms and small FHA houses surrounded the highway as I headed north. At one point, I passed the familiar sights of Musella and the packing plant for Dickey Farms, a peach orchard we have visited. The "season over" sign made me sad as I remembered our trips down to Dickey's to buy peaches and peach ice cream and peach bread.

Later, I passed the peach stand just north of Culloden and saw that the DOT had created a roundabout at the intersection of 3/41 and 74. The thickly leaved peach trees surrounded the intersection as if an army of peach trees were camped on the hilltop where the roundabout was located.

The air was so dry now and the thin clouds were high in the sky. It looked so still as if the season had held its breath, waiting for Winter to arrive. But there are many days of Fall before us before the year takes it final turn toward December and January and the hardest days of Winter.

I completed my trip through Lamar County, Barnesville and up through Milner, Orchard Hill and County Line Road over to South Sixth Street Extension and home.

The ride was so restful. Peaceful. Comforting in the false sense of permanence the countryside provided me. I drove down to Fort Valley to provide a service. In return, I was paid $250 and a peaceful, restful trip through Middle Georgia in October. The trees had not turned, but no matter. I thoroughly enjoyed the ride anyway.

Early this morning

The morning has come and so has the rain. The radio just informed me of a flood watch around the Atlanta area. I am sure that will extend to Macon, where I have to be at 10:30. I hope I can find my good umbrella. Maybe I will include my rain coat and my hat with my ensemble this morning.

It seems like it takes awhile to get started in the morning. Particularly yesterday and today. I don't know why it takes a little longer. This morning I am feeling my mortality a little more than normal. I guess ignoring my mortality is just that, ignoring the inevitable. I woke up around 5:40 and left the bedroom. Kate left the bedroom door open so Tex escaped sometime in the middle of the night. When I stepped in and awakened Cindy, Tex was not in the bedroom, or the living room or the kitchen or laundry room or dining room. That eliminates the bottom half of the house. I guess he might have found his way to the second floor.

A new week begins. Much like the week before. Perhaps like the week ahead. Oh well.