Thanks for sharing this. It's a beautiful portrait of the importance of such events to the lives of rural people. Many who have never experienced these events and traditions don't understand them, but they are so important to those who live them that many rural people chose lives of poverty and hardship over moving to the city (where many would still have lives of poverty and hardship) so they can continue what to them is an essential part of their life. I may have a book rec for you about timber country in Northern California, if you're interested.
This was lovely, bb.It reminded me of this memory of my own, on Christmas Eve, in the tiny-ass town where my grandma lived and my family is from. There was a train that went by my grandma's house--as in, RIGHT NEXT TO--every Christmas Eve at midnight. I never would go to sleep until the whistle faded away, because then it was Christmas. I have really happy associations with train whistles and nighttime from that, if that makes any sense. It was nice to read your post and think about that, in the hectic-ness of pledge week.
It's always the fall and into the winter when I get most homesick for New Mexico. That's the state fair, and the chile harvest and festivals, and the way the air smells crisp and dry in a way it can't here, but also never could in New Orleans.
And I'm crying even typing that. God, I want to go home for Christmas, and Birmingham just isn't the same.
What a vivid and powerful memory! We get a fair bit of hunting up here, although it's more moose and bear than deer. Still, it's all caught up in the rhythms of rural life and you ignore that power at your peril.
I hear the loon calls all spring, summer and early autumn, just as I would when we visited my father's hometown in northern Minnesota. Every time I hear that rilling laugh, I'm struck to the bone.
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It's always the fall and into the winter when I get most homesick for New Mexico. That's the state fair, and the chile harvest and festivals, and the way the air smells crisp and dry in a way it can't here, but also never could in New Orleans.
And I'm crying even typing that. God, I want to go home for Christmas, and Birmingham just isn't the same.
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I hear the loon calls all spring, summer and early autumn, just as I would when we visited my father's hometown in northern Minnesota. Every time I hear that rilling laugh, I'm struck to the bone.
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