July 9: Night Risings, Race, Fireworks

Night risings and fallings filled my mind, free excursions carried out invisibly while the air swung up and back and the starlight rained.  By day I had watched water striders dimple and jerk over the deep bankside water slowed by the dam.  But I knew that sometimes a breath or call stirs the colony, and new forms emerge with wings.  They cluster at night on the surface of their home waters and then take to the air in a rush.  Migrating, they sail over meadows, under trees, cruising, veering towards a steady gleam in a flurry of glistening wings:  "phantom ships in the air."

Dillard watches with night risings and falling with her characteristic curiosity.  In Tinker Creek, she watches bugs walking on the water, witnesses hatches of colonies of winged insects.  They swarm and boil on the pond's surface, and then they launch like fireworks over meadows and trees.

Tonight, I will be attending a fireworks display one town down from me.  The community gathers by the lake, and there's music and food and pony rides.  Some bad garage bands, sometimes.  Of course, there are vendors hawking pizza and bratwurst and ice cream.  And, at dusk, the rockets start rising.

It's the end of a week-long celebration called Pioneer Days.  This morning, I ran the annual two-mile race organized by the local chapter of Big Brothers Big Sisters.  I was slow, slow, slow, but I still managed to take first place in my age group.  Then, there was the parade.  A huge assembly of trucks and floats and ambulances and firetrucks.  Lots of Tootsie Rolls being tossed at kids.

It's been a good day, and it will be a relaxing night, sitting on blankets by the beach with family a friends, waiting for the sun to set.  And then glistening wings of light in the sky, to steal an image from Dillard.

Saint Marty's feet are sore, but his heart is full.

July 14: Along the Road, Every Gate, Race, New Cartoon

They walked along the road; Scrooge recognizing every gate, and post, and tree; until a little market-town appeared in the distance, with its bridge, its church, and winding river.

This description is about Scrooge walking into his past, a little road that leads to the schoolhouse of his youth.  Of course, Scrooge is very familiar with these surroundings, even though he hasn't thought about them for decades probably.

This morning, I ran in a Big Brothers Big Sisters Fun Run, an event in which I participate every year.  This year, the two-mile race followed the same route it has followed for the past five years.  Like Scrooge, I know every gate, and post, and tree.  That's not a bad thing.  I like knowing when I'm reaching the next turn or hill, when the railroad tracks are coming up, signalling the end of the race.  It was a good run today.

My eleven-year-old daughter ran the race.  She took first place in her age group.  I pushed my three-year-old son in a running stroller.  He took first place in his age group.  I, pushing that stroller and pacing my daughter, took second place in my age group.  Don't be too impressed.  There was only one other person in my age group.  But I got a medal.

Tonight, there's a fireworks show in the neighboring town.  It's usually the best fireworks of the summer.  Plus, I'll be able to get some kettle corn.  I love small town life.

Saint Marty may be slow, but he's still a winner.

Confessions of Saint Marty