![]() The more beers we consumed as we discussed this new ultimate high, the more the pump on the old adrenal gland began to max out. Leaping from about 4,000 feet above the earth, with some sturdy cloth strapped to your back, and with a promise, to get you back to the ground, without breaking both legs and your back. Cooper, who for less than $75.00, would instruct anyone with $75.00 in the fine art of jumping out of a perfectly good single engine airplane. It seems that Edro had made friends with Apison’s answer to D.B. Edro showed up with cold, almost an entire case of Carling Black Labels, telling an amazing story about the most recent, ultimate high. That takes us to jumping out of perfectly good airplanes somewhere over Apison and peer pressure. The pump was redlined more often than is necessary to catalog here. The list of risks taken, and not all that well understood at the time, seems rather extensive, so let’s not belabor the point. Wading, lost, in snake and gator infested swamps deer hunting. Sunk boats in the dead of winter, hitchhiking from Lookout Valley to Grizzly country in order to back pack among man eaters, not knowing anything about man eaters. ![]() That’s where “Son, just what in the world were you thinking?” came into the vocabulary.įrom there the list of “events” seems to have grown exponentially. That adrenal fueled downhill ride was the first batch of stitches necessary to reattach a necessary body part. That’s how I near ripped my ear off when I almost slid the bike under a low hanging Mimosa limb. I’m pretty sure it really kicked into high gear with the first bicycle jump and the invention of down hill runs ending in side sliding in loose gravel. My mother says it all started at a startling young age with the climbing of trees, or the high dive board at the Warner Park pool. The adrenal gland was attached to a pump that red lined somewhere between “Son, what in the world were you thinking” and “You’re just plain lucky you survived another Near Death Experience.” Maybe a lonely goose here and there, in some early morning darkness, on some cold sand bar, but geese singing at night, was discounted as an oddity.Īs the bird lulled me back to dreaming, the old adrenal gland came to mind. Whippoorwills came to mind, but that was about it. ![]() Maybe she was trying to lullaby her nest full of babies back to sleep.Īs I listened to the wide awake birds’ small symphony, I tried to recall the birds that sang in the dark. Like the moon had interrupted her sleep, and she didn’t know just what to do, so she decided to sing herself back to sleep. The bird sounded subdued, almost half awake. The song was not the usual 06:00 a.m., ‘here comes the sun’ kind of tune. That’s about the time I realized that the Mocking Bird was singing. No need for a flashlight if the little donkey needs more protection than the momma donkey could provide. It seemed to be a safe distance away from the young donkey that was just dropped. ![]() Off in the distance, a young coyote yipped. Oddly quiet for a full moon of this intensity. This illuminated night was subtly quiet of the bull frogs and the little loud green tree frogs. ![]() Waiting for sleep to return in the brightness of the moon streaming through the window involves listening carefully to the night sounds adrift over the pasture. There’s no calculation of the number of birds this massive oak has sheltered and raised in the last few decades. They’ve chosen to raise more house Mocking Birds in this tall tree for more years than we care to count. When you gaze at the full moon from the bed, it filters slowly through the fullness of a tall oak where the swings hang and the house Mocking Birds annually build nests. ![]()
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