Honea Express

Posts Tagged ‘whit honea’

I don’t usually do Wordless Wednesdays on this site, but I’m tired of looking at that Admiral Hills story in the post below. That said, here’s the family at an apple orchard over the weekend. Nana was in town. It was fun. Yes, there are words on here. Do I strike you as the kind of guy that gives a shit? Besides, it’s Tuesday.

But seriously, we had a great weekend.

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I knew a man in the military. He was an Admiral. His name was Hills. He loved a good tune. You might say that Admiral Hills was alive with the sound of music. He loved art and he worked mostly in oils and Garfunkle. His presence was a thousand glasses toasted and his absence whispered in the sounds of silence. He rose above the world like a bridge over troubled water. Some people loved him like a rock.

I haven’t seen the man in over 40 years. I thought about sending him a message in a bottle — an SOS, but my bottles are full of ships and beer and sink heavy when empty. I’ve thought about taking a trip to wherever he lives — an ultimate vacation of old friends and their families. But where would I go? What would I do? What family members would I bring along?

I don’t know.

I could climb every mountain, search high and low. Would I find him in Belize, floating in a warm sea and sipping drinks made with exotic fruit and sweat-laced liquor? Would I search for him in Switzerland, skiing the Alps and being more or less neutral about all of it? They are so many silver white winters and so much melting into spring.

I could follow every highway, every path I know.

Any of these places would be perfect for a man and his wife, two boys and their dogs. Admiral Hills was a man of good cheer, and he always said that a family vacation is in the dreams and the plans, and the journey of maybe getting there. We should all pack accordingly.

We’ll get there someday.

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When we left the sunrise was at our back. We drove through dark and ice and the sound of boys falling in and out of sleep. The tundra was frozen and redundant. The sky was lost and forgotten.

The airport was alive with the non-dead. Sleepy travelers boarded dreams. Weary passengers stumbled through gates like so many sheep. I stood there and tried not to count them.

My wife kissed my cheek and peeled the children from me. It took a little skin. I watched them walk away until they turned from sight and then I walked to the car and into the darkness. It was exactly like I had left it but slightly more so.

When I returned the sunrise was my horizon. I drove through twilight and ice and the sound of emptiness traveling just over the posted speed limit. The mountains glowed gold and bright. The sky stretched and yawned and rubbed sleep from its eye. I started to say something but there was no one there to hear me.

All that was left was time and an eastbound highway. I thought of a plane somewhere behind me, turned on the radio and like a moth to the flame I followed the sun until it engulfed everything but the shadows.

It ain’t the Fantastic Mr. Fox, but it’s a wild animal(s) for a neighbor.

Please note, on the other side of that door are two very loud and anxious dogs (owners of the food bowls, pictured). Raccoons. Do. Not. Care.

Remember kids, if a raccoon knocks on your door and it isn’t wearing clothing it is most likely REAL and therefore DANGEROUS. If it is wearing pants you can let it in. Enjoy your absinthe.

A lack of sleep and a bottle of something teamed up to make my morning a series of echoes and drumbeats. The drummers stood bedside and they beat their drums slowly.

“Can we play the Wii?” they asked.

“Will you make breakfast?” they hounded.

“I have to go potty,” they threatened.

They were up too early, because it was Saturday. If it were a school day I would be the one standing over them as they lay warm and oblivious. But it wasn’t a school day. It was the weekend and they were up early and I had been up late.

I got up. I wiped a butt. I made some breakfast. I drank some coffee. I took some aspirin.

The boys traded drumsticks for forks and beats for bites. I stood in the open doorway and felt the cold air on my face. The fog rolled off the hills and the rain splashed against my bare feet.

Behind me teams were being picked, the two of them dividing and competing and planning ways to best their opponent.

“I’m on your team,” one brother said to the other.

I stood at the door as they charged the day and I pitied any foe that made its way past me.