I'm back. The trips downhome are always melancholy. So many memories of family, childhood, so many faces gone. Poverty, mountains, ekeing a living out from the small acreage farms. I always knew I was getting close to granma's from the smell of coal smoke in the hollows.
If God is generous I will get back there to end my days at some point. In the evening the whippoorwill's sing, the mist rising from the bottomlands. Coyotes and bobcats prowl, stalk and call. As teh morning sun rises and burns off the mist the cicadas being to sing, and the day birds with them, while butterflies flit about. I love it down there. Soren, you'd like it alot too. A good quiet place to sit and think. Or a good place to work in the fields for the day.
Later, Bill
"Women give to men the very gold of their lives. But they invariably want it back in small change".

Oscar Wilde