closing time

Bars in Gville close promptly at 2am. Most nights this does not have any impact on our lives. However, on Gator home game weekends (there are usually 6 per year), I am made painfully aware of how close we are to campus, the stadium, and many local bars. Tomorrow is a big game ( I think), meaning that from 2am on, there has been non-stop activity on my block. People are wandering from the bars surrounding campus to their cars parked on our street and others nearby. Tonight (or this morning, however you choose to view it) I was first awakened by drunk yelling in the street, then later, sirens, then general loud talking, then more sirens, then helicopters, more loud talking. After an hour, I have given up the idea of sleep and am, officially, awake.

Monongahela National Forest, WV "Where Rivers Begin"

more journal notes.

We are parked along Forest Road 28/11 on our way to Seneca Rocks at a little spot I like to call "Dead Animal Overlook." Here in West Virginia or at least in this part of the forest,
people have a different purpose for their overlooks. The scenery is breathtaking, some of the most gorgeous mountains we've witnessed yet - if you can look past the various napkins, roof tiles, snack wrappers, and plastic bags littering the area.

I'm no snob and I'm not unaccustomed to seeing trash on the side of the road. What gets me is the squirrel's head tossed just off the pavement a few paces from the passenger door of the truck and the large white and grey speckled wing of what may have been a turkey tucked in the grass a few feet past that. James found other portions of the turkey in a plastic bag nearby, mostly guts and possibly the missing head. He didn't open the bag for a better look and I, safely back in the passenger seat, refuse to get out again.

leaf peeper

I stood on a boulder in Vermont after climbing up and down rock after rock to reach the largest one resting in the exact center of the West River. Alone, I watched the water rush on either side of me and I couldn't help but feel the awe caused by sunset in autumn as it raked at severe angles -first across the water, then across the bank, until when perpendicular with the trees, shadows blanketed the lowlands while brilliant sunlight intensified the reds, oranges, yellows and greens of October above the line of the setting sun.

"I'm a peeper," I whispered to myself, and was suddenly reminded of my friend, who loves to do things en masse. The census thrills her (because everybody does it), as do voting day and tax day. On April 15, no matter when she has completed them, she journeys to the post office to deliver her report personally. She waits in line and buys the correct postage. Last year, she anticipated the day for weeks, putting off the responsibility of mailing until the last moment, simply because she wanted the excitement of being there with everyone else. I could hear the disappointment in her voice when she returned to inform me that there wasn't much of a crowd that day.

Unlike my friend, I'm not into mass gatherings and tend to avoid most things with large crowds. But there I was, in Vermont, leaf peeping, like 100s of 1000s of others who wait with anticipation for the colors that life has to offer, and who value the experience so greatly that they are willing to book hotel rooms two years in advance.

I breathed in, surprised by this revelation. "I'm like all of the other peepers." I said, this time my voice a little louder. I looked around from my perch on the giant boulder and breathed out again. "Yet, I'm the only one here."