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Page 5 · column 2 of 5 · from the scan, no model involved
rick’s Day — the fields were Kelly green. A teasing breeze swirled the skirts of the willows. The peepers, tiny tree frogs, launched into their evening serenades. Suddenly we had flowers — narcissus, daffodils, tiny anemones in the rock garden — and the birds of spring returned. A pair of phoebes, yelling their heads off, came back to nest again outside the office.
Summers also have been wonderful here. We look back to the summer that granddaughter Heather was four, running about the backyard at dusk in search of fireflies. She would capture them in a Mason jar and release them when it got dark so they could go home to their mothers. On August nights we would sit outside under the chestnut oak, watching for shooting stars.
My own vote probably would go to autumn. The Blue Ridge is blessed not only by dark masses of pines, but also by hardwoods in abundance. The dogwood and gum trees turn first, mottled as an old man’s hand; then the maples go
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