I've lived in Philadelphia my entire life so I know concrete and asphalt; but as a teenager, along with a bunch of corner-hanging Philly boys, I regularly frequented our huge park system (Fairmount Park) -- its forests, two major streams and two rivers.
From that early experience I was moved to find other forests, streams and rivers and became as "at home" in such places as I felt on those Philly street corners.
I've been lucky in my life and managed after retirement, to buy a small house in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania where there can still be found, scenes like the one in this article.
You probably know I have a strong dislike of organized religion; but put me in a wild place with hemlock trees and flowing water
And every time, I will say in a soft voice, "Thank you God for my life."
I know what you mean A Mac. I took my shoes off the last day of school and only put them back on only on Sundays for a couple of hours until school started back.
I can still feel that snake I ran across barefoot in the woods behind my house in the woods that day. Felt like I ran across an electric wire. It didn't shock but vibrated under my feet. Must have been going pretty fast because I didn't get bit.
Lived 1/2 mile from the river and there were fields and lots of creeks running to the river. Practically lived in the woods growing up and it even got better when I went to my grand parents and great grand parents and rode in the wagon pulled by the mule with my great grand father to a house out in the middle of the woods where two little old ladies (sisters) lived and delivered a couple of bottles of milk to them.
Then we'd go to one of the two little country stores in the community for 15 miles. There were always several old men sitting around just talking. We were really out in the country to me. I went to be when the sun went down and smelled breakfast before it came up being cooked by Mama Rice.
Man I sure do miss those days. Knee deep in water in the gallberry (that's what they called it. I guess there were also a lot of gallbberry growing in there as well) picking huckleberries with my grand mother.
You couldn't pay me to do that today. My grand daddy had a big old jar, I mean like a giant Mason jar or pickle jar full of rattlesnake rattlers.
It won't be long before you can put that picture up after a snowfall, maybe tomorrow.
Mac, in Ojibwe the Creator is called Gitchi-Manitou, the Great Spirit, or the Great Mystery. It has no color, no gender. It belongs to all of us, without being like us.
My kind of place.
Click on pic.
''My kind of place''. Mine too Mac.
BF,
I've lived in Philadelphia my entire life so I know concrete and asphalt; but as a teenager, along with a bunch of corner-hanging Philly boys, I regularly frequented our huge park system (Fairmount Park) -- its forests, two major streams and two rivers.
From that early experience I was moved to find other forests, streams and rivers and became as "at home" in such places as I felt on those Philly street corners.
I've been lucky in my life and managed after retirement, to buy a small house in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania where there can still be found, scenes like the one in this article.
You probably know I have a strong dislike of organized religion; but put me in a wild place with hemlock trees and flowing water
And every time, I will say in a soft voice, "Thank you God for my life."
Peace to you Badfish.
I know what you mean A Mac. I took my shoes off the last day of school and only put them back on only on Sundays for a couple of hours until school started back.
I can still feel that snake I ran across barefoot in the woods behind my house in the woods that day. Felt like I ran across an electric wire. It didn't shock but vibrated under my feet. Must have been going pretty fast because I didn't get bit.
Lived 1/2 mile from the river and there were fields and lots of creeks running to the river. Practically lived in the woods growing up and it even got better when I went to my grand parents and great grand parents and rode in the wagon pulled by the mule with my great grand father to a house out in the middle of the woods where two little old ladies (sisters) lived and delivered a couple of bottles of milk to them.
Then we'd go to one of the two little country stores in the community for 15 miles. There were always several old men sitting around just talking. We were really out in the country to me. I went to be when the sun went down and smelled breakfast before it came up being cooked by Mama Rice.
Man I sure do miss those days. Knee deep in water in the gallberry (that's what they called it. I guess there were also a lot of gallbberry growing in there as well) picking huckleberries with my grand mother.
You couldn't pay me to do that today. My grand daddy had a big old jar, I mean like a giant Mason jar or pickle jar full of rattlesnake rattlers.
It won't be long before you can put that picture up after a snowfall, maybe tomorrow.
Serene and picturesque - lovely image, Mac. Thanks for sharing your house of worship!
I pray it be a worthy image.
Thanks to good friends with whom I can share my stuff.
It's certainly close enough to thank Him/Her/It whatever that entity, if it created these things, it certainly can "hear" a heartfelt "Thank You".
Mac, in Ojibwe the Creator is called Gitchi-Manitou, the Great Spirit, or the Great Mystery. It has no color, no gender. It belongs to all of us, without being like us.
Nothing more to be said.
Too kind, but thank you.
Your words are wise, Raven. It is the only "house of worship" I believe in!
And mine as well.