Solemn Sunday

I've neglected my blog, which leaves an unsettled feeling.

I recently returned from a road trip to West Virginia, and what an adventure that proved to be.  More to come.   I was hoping to snag a picture of the Arch in St. Louis, but since traffic was snarly, I had to pay close attention to road signs and traffic.  Cars zoomed on either side of me, and daylight was ebbing.  I loved this adventure.  I recommend activities such as this that will stretch one's boundaries, character, mind, body, and limitations.

I am now in Oklahoma again, after the nice visit with my folks, and I ponder being so far away from my family; 1,000 miles seems so far.  I miss them.  How does one reconcile the facts and the lonliness of one's heart?   I hear the phrase, "making the best of it" as the situation is.  Well, that is all well and good; but, being the conflicted person that I am internally (I tend to be melancholy), this concept does not ring true for me.   The emotions will just have to be made right on their own.    The more I force myself to be jolly, the more despondent I grow.  Why is that?   Chemical makeup too? 

Oklahoma has served its purpose in my life; time to wander and ponder, I muse.   An excerpt from my memories (book?) follows:

Every summer when I was a kid, fried pattypan squash inundated our lives. Fresh from their garden, along with White Half Runner Green Beans (let's be very specific about this, because this was the only green bean that I thought existed as a child), and we never bought green beans at the grocery store, carrots, cucumbers, peppers, tomatoes, and numerous other vegetables, undoubtedly, that I have since forgotten about, graced our dining table along with basic meat cuts like pork chops and roast beef. I loved the treat of spaghetti, for my Mom, although not the best cook, concocted a killer homemade spaghetti sauce with onions, tomato sauce, tomato paste, and tons of spices. I relished it. My Dad was emotionally bereft, but his love trickled down to my brother and me through the massive garden he planted each summer and treated as lovingly as a baby; he hoed and weeded and sprayed and killed big fat tomato worms that clung stubbornly to the vines so that we would have enough food to eat. Ray Moore was not a farmer, per se, it was just the garden that occupied his summers, but as a young family man he took his role as provider seriously. The garden thrived, and I don't recall that there was ever a summer when the garden did not produce. My favorite was carrots. As I look back, I can not believe that I ever grew sick of garden food, for I would give my molar teeth to have fresh vegetables such as this on a daily basis.