It won’t be long…
The sun was barely promising to rise this morning when I walked out on my front porch. Slowly, the dusty grey of dawn gave way to a vista of red and purple which cascaded across the lake. I sat in a swing, one that my wife and I built, and watched it all unfold.
It was quite except for the occasional flutter of wings as sparrows removed the dew from their feathers. Other birds joined in the awakening and soon an orchestra of fur and foul echoed through the thickness of morning. Grey squirrels jumped from limb to limb shaking small showers of rain from the trees. They are searching, I thought, for all the places they had hidden the acorns from last fall. Surely they are thinking about the new crop now forming, though small, in the tiny branches of the live oaks. It won’t be much longer. There will be new acorns to hide if only they can be patient.
There was a familiar and pleasant smell, found only in the Sand Hills and only found at this time of the day; a musky bouquet of pine needles, decaying oak leaves, and a peculiar odor I have never been able to identify; perhaps the scent of endangered plants from this region like the Threadleaf Sundew or Smooth Bark St. John’s Wort. It all blended together to make a unique elixir which, if I could bottle, I would sip from a crystal goblet as a cure for the morning blues. I love the smell of morning in the Sand Hills.
Dixie, our golden retriever, discovered my peace and quickly retrieved a small rubber football and came to me for a game of catch. The ball was slick with her excitement and she dared me to take it from her, which I did, then tossed into the wet grass for her to retrieve. She took off, wide open, and then attacked the football, fumbling several times before she got a good grip. She ran back, football even slicker, wanting to keep the game going. I praised her for bringing back the ball knowing full well she was not going to give it to me and I wasn’t in the mood to chase her.
“Dixie,” I said, “You stink awfully good this morning.” This apparently hurt her feelings because she stood there looking at me with a hurt expression, ball still in mouth and dripping, then turned and went back to her favorite resting spot maintaining what little dignity she had left. She thinks everyday is Saturday.
A slight wind whispered and it caught me by surprise. It was one of the isolated August breezes that crosses your face, slightly cool but fleeting; a little reminder that fall is not too far away and that the doldrums of summer may, in fact, have an end.
It felt like college football, boiled green peanuts, bluegrass festivals, oysters, and campfires. I closed my eyes and could smell fresh mullet frying in peanut oil and the familiar aroma of propane from the cooker. Then, as quickly as it came, it faded, replaced by warm, humid air which felt more like breath than breeze. It was like telling my best friend goodbye. What was I thinking, this is Florida and a late August morning will trick you into thinking summer is over only to be fooled by the hell of high noon.
Fall can’t come quick enough. It has been a horribly hot summer. 
The lake is drying up, there has been very little rain, and the humidity has been drenching. Glass bottles, which haven’t seen the light of day since early 20th century fishermen littered them in the lake, are now lying on shore, exposed by the retreating water. It has been many, many years since the water levels were this low. I would get angry if I knew who to blame. At least in the fall, when evaporation slows, the rain might help restore the lake levels. I hope.
The rattle of dishes from inside the house followed by the annoying sound of a coffee grinder punctured the morning respite. Dixie either forgot or forgave my earlier insults because she lumbered back over to the swing. This time, the commotion in the house told her that the rest of the family was stirring and she is only minutes away from breakfast.
“I’m not going to feed you. That’s Emily’s job.” She looked at me as if her pitiful stare could miraculously compel me to jump to my feet to fetch her breakfast. I returned her stare which made her uncomfortable. Dogs don’t like for you to stare. Neither do humans for that matter.
I looked over the lake and a large fluffy cumulous cloud was illuminated by the rising sun. The bright orange tones and black bottom revealed a nasty storm for Walton County or beyond. “At least somebody is getting rain,” I said to Dixie, as if the rain cloud was more important than her breakfast.
“Ok, come on. Let’s see what’s on the menu for the morning.” I fed Dixie, and then went inside to take a shower. As I dressed for work, I noticed my hunting clothes, sweaters, and leather jacket hanging in the closet where they had been carefully placed last spring.
“It won’t long.” I whispered to myself. “It won’t be long.”
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About Me
The life of any News Director is stressful most days... so, when the weekend rolls around I find myself on the back roads of our bountiful and beautiful part of the state looking for bluegrass music, interesting things to do, and, of course, fried chicken. I will try to share some of these "finds" with you. There are a thousand stories left to be told or simply remembered. Don't expect to find them all here; maybe just a little stroll down memory lane or maybe a little skewed insight into topical issues.
Larche Hardy,
News Director
All My Entries:
- Nashville Bluegrass at IBMA
- Marty Raybon and Georgia Bluegrass
- Curse of the Acoustic Guitar
- A Millville Hero
- Bluegrass at BAMA JAM a hit!
- Bird watching not a bore
- No Poet Laureate
- Let the Bluegrass begin
- Hurry Spring
- Alabama’s Highway 52
- Cell Phone Interuptus
- Bellying up to the bar
- Resolutions are Doomed to Failure
- Bah-dad-gum-Humbug
- A hunting we will go!
- Hot Stuff!
- My new camo hat… A bargain at $34
- The Road Trip
- “If you don’t want to make the news, just don’t do it.”
- Hostage
- Not a Cat Person
- Hollywood - Here I don’t come…
- Found: a cure for the blues…
- It won’t be long…
- Not Enough Historical Markers, I say…
- Evolution takes many forms
- Revisiting Vernon
- All I know is that it’s hot…
- I Love Slocomb
- The Not-So-Casual Traveler
- The Casual Historian
Other News13 Blogs:
- The Casual Historian - Larche Hardy
- Derby Girl - Enocha Van Lierop
- The Newby - Jessi Chapin
- Gainesville, Georgia's All American Girl - Tuquyen Mach
