That morning, I drove in the bright sunlight on ribbons of pavement that lay gently on the snow-covered hills against the deep blue sky.
Ray Lamontagne sang about trouble.
I sipped good, strong, black coffee.
I was by myself.
I like being with others, but I also like the times alone.
To sort it all out.
On the edge of Appalachia, the hills disappeared.
Across the Ohio River, the stacks pierced the sky and bellowed white cotton.
One hundred years from now, they won’t be there.
They weren’t there one hundred years ago.
That’s what those kinds of day will do for you.
Joseph E Bird 
February 13, 2016 at 11:00 am
This resonates with me in many ways. I like Ray Lamontagne, strong coffee and being alone with my thoughts. I close my eyes and picture the drive along Route 35 to the Ohio.
It also calls up a vivid memory of a summer day, perhaps 50 years ago. Jane and I were laying in the grass in my back yard looking up at the startling blue of the cloudless sky. She said, “Once they finish the John Amos power plant we’ll never see a cloudless sky again.” We lay in silence for a moment, pondering how our lives would be changed by no more cloudless skies. Finally, because I felt we should Do Something but knowing we were only 8 and 9, I said, “Then let’s lay down and look at the sky whenever there are no clouds so we can remember.”
I’m not sure we ever thought about it after that, but your post brought it back to me like it was yesterday. Thanks!
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February 13, 2016 at 11:32 am
Man, that’s a good thought. I will likely steal it and use it in a story someday. Look at the sky and remember when there were no clouds.
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February 13, 2016 at 1:47 pm
Steal away. Funny thing is, it worked. I can remember that moment, that sky, as clearly as anything.
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