Back again.....

.......or an attempt to recall just what the hell I've been doing with myself.

An important exercise in knocking the rust, caused by standing in the rain wrasslin' with the black dogs, from the creaky working of a feeble mind.

When last we heard from the former boy sky warrior he had just advised everyone to go read much better writers than himself. This was and remains good advice and those who wish to exit now will have their entrance fee refunded in full except for a small charge used to feed the poor starving waifs in rural Appalachia....

40 million or so of them at last count according to official statistics on the number receiving food stamps. In the last 45 years or so thanks to the remarkable efforts of the Federal Government's War on Poverty the percentage of poor has not diminished one percentage point. I wonder what the number of people working on the problem has grown to?

Shortly after the last communique' from our intrepid hero we find him in the remote hinterland of Hwy 985 at the Hwy 52 intersection where he was beguiled by a most remarkable lady only slightly older than himself...

Still possessing all the qualities that drew men to her for thousands of years the Lady Liberty retains the ability to quicken a young mans heart and cause old men to smile at memories fondly recalled.

Some little time later a few moments were spent in attempting to teach the pooch to fly. Unfortunately the effort failed as the required lift over his ears was not sufficient at any of the speeds at which we could get him to stick his head into the slipstream.

The end of the week found the wife of my youth, the non-flying pooch and I trekking northward into the semi-rain forested area NW of Clayton, GA out Persimmon Rd. to the Tullulah River, there to spend a night camping out with the youngest daughter and her family to feast on freshly caught trout then sitting around a cheerful campfire later after the oldest daughter and her family arrived, dodging the smoke, roasting marshmallows and making smores (sic).

(at our age the wife and I find sleeping in a tent in 40 degree weather, even on a pneumatic mattress and with comfy sleeping bags a sure way to guarantee plenty of aches and groans for the next few days as we try to work the knots in our backs out.)

Mothers Day was spent catching more trout and watching the youngest granddaughter frolic in water that would keep beer and cokes chilly and cause manly parts to retire to warmer locales behind the nearest liver or spleen, but to her was just right for splashing in

Or getting mad at Paw Paw for not letting her out on the slippery rocks where every one else was fishing


But soon all was forgiven as she found pretty little flowers of blue to bring me.




Later the Son and his family would arrive and we would pile into the back of the trucks for the ride back to the campground looking for all the world like a bunch of Clampetts heading for Beverly Hills

There to partake of a non-traditional Mothers Day feast of hot dogs, hamburgers and best of all wild turkey breast, cubed, smeared with cajun spices and deep fried in the fish cooker.

Tell me and the grand kids that we don't know how to live.