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“He was the sort of fellow that kids laughed at and dogs wanted to bite.”
Carson McCullers from The Heart is a Lonely Hunter
Canyon Rim Trail, Pipestem State Park; Pipestem, West Virginia.
Photo by GMcB, copyright 2015.
There are some days that jump on your back at dawn’s early light for no discernible reason and ride you hard, dissipating energy and polluting emotion until sullenness is replaced by abject apathy, before the night finally declares an end to the day’s reign. Trevor had seen his fair share of such days that more often than not lingered into weeks. And though he seemed primed to again carry the oppressing burden, he awoke Thursday morning at daybreak with a fresh enthusiasm that would have been difficult to explain, had he even cared to think about it.
He awoke early on Wednesday morning.
He stood in the bathroom assessing himself in the mirror. It had been a very long time since had cared about such things. It had been at least three months since he had had a real haircut and he had quit shaving a month ago. No one at his office cared what he looked like, as long as the work got done. As he had taken to spending more time in the mountains, his appearance had gradually evolved into that of a typical trail monkey. He wore expensive hiking boots, nylon trail pants, and more often than not, cotton flannel shirts.
It was too late to cut his hair. He pulled it back and held it so that it was tight against his head. It made the right side of his face look better, but exposed more scarring on the left side. What he needed was a hairstyle somewhere between his scraggly, homeless look and the buttoned-down lawyer cut. Besides, the only way he could pull off that look now was to bind his hair in the back with a rubber band. And despite everything he had been through, he was not and never would be a pony tail guy.
.
copyright joseph e bird, 2015
I have played in the creek.
Built a dam.
Swung from the vines.
Climbed the lightening-struck tree.
Built a fort.
Hid a treasure.
Those were the days.
.
I saw JFK
the day before he was killed.
And then it was Martin Luther King.
And then Robert.
I watched Neil Armstrong walk on the moon.
The world changed so fast.
Those were the days.
.
I grew up.
I dated girls.
Went to college.
Dated girls.
Got a job.
Dated girls.
Those were the days.
.
I helped build a company.
It grew and I grew.
I made mistakes.
We won awards.
I got married (again).
I made friends for life.
Those were the days.
.
We were young.
Or so it seemed.
We dressed to the nines.
We danced till midnight.
And toasted the promise of tomorrow.
Old friends, new friends.
Those were the days.
.
My hair is thin.
I’m always tired.
No dances now.
Friends have disappeared.
But the sun shines.
And blessings flow.
These are the days.
.
These are the days.
.
Copyright: joseph e bird, 2015
My shoes will pat the pavement,
In rhythms strong and sure,
Though miles to go and hills to climb,
I’m certain to endure.
The sun is soft, the air is cool,
And gentle on my face.
The wind blows light upon my back,
As if to speed my pace.
One mile, two miles, feels so good,
Then I start upon the climb.
The legs move slow, but steady still,
My strength is past its prime.
My breath comes hard and labored,
My body screams for air.
I pump my arms and power on,
And pray unspoken prayer.
*
Were life the flats on sunny days,
We’d run the course with ease.
As if we knew the answers, all,
To questions as we please.
There’re hills and rain and dogs that bark,
There’s worry that won’t end.
There’s snow and wind and knees that ache,
And sadness for a friend.
The body’s weak, the spirit flawed,
Ourselves we will betray.
But we’ll keep on running up the hill,
To have another day.
Rejoice, give thanks, the summit reached,
The effort strong and pure.
Though weak and tired and tested now,
I’m certain to endure.
It’s unlike anything you’ve read before.
Carl Campbell lived for one thing: basketball.
Regrets? Plenty.
But only after he is dead.
In the latest novel by Larry Ellis, Overtime: A Basketball Parable, Coach Carl Campbell – post mortem – sits on a bench behind the goal of a run-down, outdoor basketball court and reflects on his life as he watches young versions of his former players shoot hoops. It is a kind of purgatory that forces Campbell to reevaluate the decisions he made and the opportunities he missed, hoping to find a sliver of redemption.
In Overtime, there are basketball scenes, but it’s not a sports book. There is unrequited love, but it’s not a romance. And of course there is the spirit? ghost? of Carl Campbell, but it’s not a paranormal mystery.
It’s just a good story with unusual characters that will stay with you long after you’ve finished the book.
You ever get ill at ease, said Rawlins.
About what?
I don’t know. About anything.
Sometimes. If you’re someplace you aint supposed to be to be I guess you’d be ill at ease. Should be anyways.
Well suppose you were ill at ease and didn’t know why. Would that mean that you might be someplace you wasnt supposed to be and didnt know it?
What the hell’s wrong with you?
from All the Pretty Horses, by Cormac McCarthy
Joseph E Bird 