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Sandhills pasture in winter |
Time marches on . . .
12/15, Sunday. Early
Christmas gift: a warm watch cap from L.L. Bean that I will not take off until
next spring.
12/16, Monday. Look
up: in the desert sky swirls and slowly shifting shapes of high, thin clouds
against stark blue, an edge of them briefly catching a flash of brilliant color
from the ice crystals of a mid-day sun dog.
12/17, Tuesday. Full
moon in a misty haze of early dawn clouds, shining between the slats of the
kitchen window blinds as I wait for coffee, impatient for solstice and an end
to these long dark nights.
12/18, Wednesday. Off
at short notice to Nebraska, to join relatives for a family
funeral, searching through closets before I go to find warm clothes and discovering a
forgotten wool coat long zipped away in a garment bag that somehow escaped
donations to Goodwill.
12/19, Thursday. Turns
out there’s not a single normal sized car to be had at airport rentals in
Grand Island thanks to pre-Christmas travel, and after a moment’s thought, I
decide to take the remaining Ford Expedition, with its seats for nine passengers and a
heater that this California driver forgot you have to wait for the
engine to warm up before turning it on full blast.
12/20, Friday. It is
10 degrees in little Worms, Nebraska, where the gateway to the church cemetery
says “Est. 1873” and I’m following a fresh footpath through last night’s
dusting of snow to join a hundred or more gathered by a new grave, and a
minister in white vestments, without a hat on his thinly-haired head, says last
words, his voice resonating in the cold with Scripture readings promising life
everlasting.
12/21, Saturday. I
head out of town for a two-hour drive along highway 2 toward Broken Bow and the
Sandhills, stopping every 20 minutes to take pictures of harvested fields, a
frozen creek, and rolling grassland and discovering Ainsley (pop. 431), with
two vacant storefronts side by side, built in 1916.
Image credits: Ron
Scheer
Coming up: Marlon
Brando, The Appaloosa (1966)
Funerals never seem to take place in nice weather. At least the ones I've been too. Sorry for your family's loss.
ReplyDeleteSorry for your loss, Ron. Nothing like the barren vista of winter in Nebraska. Send me some of your photos!
ReplyDeleteThe most penetrating sentences beautifully reflect your roots.
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