I saw my first sunrise today, through the sleeping apple trees that surround me on my walk. Still strictly limited (if it hurts, stop) due to my back, I only walk about a half mile or so, but the hill I live on rises a bit above my house on a low grade. The top of the hill is only about twelve feet above my driveway, another 7 feet down to my yard. Just enough to give me a sunrise at the top, where I turn around to walk back, and then again at my yard, with a peeking of the sun between.
South Mountain, a good neighbor, is just turning a deep plum against a lilac sky. Peach trees lie dormant in between, tied up for training and support. Cashtown is already awake, the farmers in their fields although there is little work to do right now. Soon the flurry of preparation for spring planting will begin, wheat, sorghum, rape, soy and corn are all in seed, waiting to be put in the rich earth to ripen.
Then there will be little enough rest for the farmers, winter offers a brief time of regeneration, both for the trees and fields, and for the tenders, the farmers, the growers. They are the heart of this county, this state, this nation. Stop the farming, and all your important, fancy white collar workers, the blue collars of industry, the retail workers, all will stop. And yet, these tough, hardworking, driven providers are often scorned. It angers me. I did not expect to find that here, but the city folk are fleeing there crappy cities, and moving to rural areas, but voting the same way they did in the cities. The future looks grim to me. I think I need a ride up to the top of the the ridge to my west, its higher than my little ridge, and get a little perspective back. Maybe the pandemic is coloring my thoughts too much.
Here is my second sunrise, my treat for the day, brilliant white gold against a molten sky.
The part of South Mountain that lies right behind my house is a gentle fold of the mostly sharp ridged Valley and Ridge portion of the Appalachians. Up here, about half the people pronounce it with a long "a", and half with a short. Fitting, since Pennsylvania is a sort of mixing ground of immigrants from Ireland and Scotland. I have lived longest in the south, where it is mostly Scots immigrants, and we pronounce it with a short third "a", the north had mostly the Irish, and they pronounce it with a long "a". We are a mix here. Our music shows influences of both, so too the accents. Well, at least the music and speech of the area's original immigrant's descendants. Now the influx of people from all walks of life have made it even more of a mixing pot, I think America is slowly losing the zonal differences. Luckily not yet, There are still those whose lives are little different than their great grand parents....technical advances, yes, both in work and play. Medically, thank goodness yes, though I still know some who collect locally available plants for medicine and food, and I seek them out to learn from them. Someday they will all be gone. Until then, I will try to help keep their knowledge alive. I actually owe my life to one of them, but that's a story for another time! I think I will go listen to a little bluegrass.
