Listening to The South's Soft Whisper
Shhhhh . ..
can you hear me? The mockingbirds, crickets, and frogs do make the racket. I been here since these trees was sickly saplings. I mean it. I cannot recall just when it came around, the big growing, old folks used to call it. But it--was--grand. These cypress trees sprung toward heaven carrying that Spanish moss on their arms just waving to the forever skies. Not caring. They spent their time in wondering where or whom they might be.
But as for me, I'm content. Well, not all of the time. Except for the hurricanes once in a season or two, things are calm, the folks who live here, I think maybe the tenth generation, all of the swamp creatures and pesky skeeters. We all live together and try to respect the other.
Everywhere you choose to look
there it is. That annoying Spanish Moss. Oh, she's pretty to look at. A real looker, mind you and according to the wealthy landowners who left all of their properties to their kids and then the grandkids, all just had to have Spanish Moss. Between you 'n me, I think al of these folks think the moss gives their mansions that . . ."Hollywood Look in the Silver Screen Era." I guess it does. Me? I just live with it as I would a head cold. But it's part of me. And part of my eternal whisper in the summer nights of June.
Now on the other side of the swamp, some young folks years ago took a good use of the Cypress tress with that moss-a hanging down. Yes, sir. They would get in couples after their mama's and daddies begun to trust them, and the young couples would sit 'neath these huge Cypress trees and "spark" like they was no tomorrow over the hill. Kinda funny though. Some of them would get into a big way of kissing and holding each other on the lips and lo and behold, a Water Moccasin would crawl right by and these young folks would never notice him. Me? I have always thought that Water Moccasins was the smarter of the reptile creations our Maker made a long time back, for they know what love means. To me, that's smart.
You ever stop and just be?
You know? "Be," as in human being. You folks are sure lucky. You can do many things we in this place, the swamp that's all around the South. It's in Louisiana, Georgia, parts of Florida and I tell you. If you walk with disrespect in your heart toward the swamp and the south, legend says that some time in some forgotten future night, a faceless spirit will spill silently into your bedroom and cover you up and leave. No more you. I would think twice about being nasty toward this dangerous swamp. Me? I respect it. I have to. I speak Southern in those summer nights in June when the breeze is hittin' the honey suckles just right.
This gal, the stone angel in the picture, how would you like to have her job for throughout Eternity? Just sittin' all day long and thinking? I would have to mull that over a time or two, for I like to move with my rivers and creeks I have in the South. That's nice to know if you are ever out without wheels under ya.' The notion that you have a way to move. Thing is with me, I don't want to move too far from heaven itself. The South.
There's one of you
reading this piece whose dream it was a few years ago, to write enough materials, maybe a best-seller, so he and his patient wife could move into a Plantation-type house like I have in the South with a long lane going to the road and the lane shaded with Cypress and Spanish Moss. Now that guy I am talking about, sure knew his dreams for if you just stop what you are doing and cast your sight into the deep cavern of moss and trees, can't you just see yourself sitting with your wife on the upper balcony while a smooth summer shower gently kisses the ground?
I know one thing. The guy who had this dream of just living off of his book royalties, had his head on right. Oh, if he needed, he could just rise from his cane-back rocker and walk to his work room and write another book. Or not. From what he has said to me (without knowing it), his first book is a wing-dinger. Lots of fast-paced action, romance, and adventure. Just like living with me. The South.
You are going to have to excuse me
for I am very tired. Not weary. There is a difference. When you see such lovely things as the photo above and those above it, well, you naturally get drowsy and later down-right sleepy. You see I have been doing this same presentation night-after-night during the month of June. You know what is strange? Hardly anyone hears me whisper. Funny thing. If I was a traveling snake oil salesman, they would sit-up and listen.
Oh, that's the way mankind is. I remember a happy mankind. A fisherman making his family a good living by fishing my waters and then after supper, just sitting with his wife and children on the banks of the Mississippi, the Alabama or Tombigbee rivers and saying nothing. Just listening to the various waves talking as they go to places they have never heard of.
Those happy people were genuinely-happy to the soul for their generations were the ones who know how to . . .
Listen to The Whisper of The South.
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