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Part I

Music is cut like a grid of urban streets – connected,unmoving, and planned by researchers who study the past and future practices.Why is this when mountains and rivers are cut and shaped at random, never toduplicate. Somehow they all fit together in one giant sphere while interacting,colliding, conducting science experiments on each other constantly for thosewho choose to observe. Non-stop Chemical reactions; wreaking havoc, all thewhile perpetuating serenity and perfection; and life for all will continue, solong as the law of conservation applies.

Rappahannock, Blue Ridge, Northern Neck, Appalachian,Accotink, Mount Vernon, Luray Caverns Chincoteague, Sandbridge, Great Falls,nor-easter,  Hurricane Sandy, T-Storms,that big river that runs through the capitol and out to the Atlantic. And so,“The Sun Also Rises.”

Part II

Your spring Saturdays were spent pulling sheets of plasticover thick metal wires that arched over beds of sweet potato plants in need ofincubation.  You had to wrap your fingersaround it, digging your knuckles into the wet sand that stuck on its surface,because the plastic created a giant sail against the stormy wind that wanted tolift up with the work you already completed. You had to hold tight, keep it down low, and sandwich it between theground and a thirty pound sandbag to secure it.

Summers were spent walking up and down the rows of plants inthe hundred degree heat looking for weeds to pull.  Once in a while, if your older brother wasable to get out of going to the farm with an excuse of having a church, school,or scout activity, you would be in charge ofmanagingthe irrigation.  You learned how to bleedwater into the furrows by starting hand-pumped siphon pipes that curved overthe side-mounds of irrigation ditches they drew from.  While you waited for the water to flood thelength of the field so you could move the pipes to the next set of rows, youcould take a nap in the shade of the large wheel on the tractor.  Or if the plant canopy was wide enough, youcould lay down just underneath the leaves in a dry furrow until the alarm youset on your watch went off.

After harvest, the crop would be taken to the packing shed,where there wasn't much for you to do except watch the workers sort theproduce, listen to the holiday music playing over loudspeakers, and stay out ofthe swerving forklift's way.  Therailroad tracks ran behind the facility, and you and your brothers would findpennies in the ashtray of your father's truck, lay them across the track, andscour the surrounding rocks trying to find the flattened coins after the train,blasting its horn, rolled over them.  Atthe end of the week, a few large wooden bins filled with sweet potatoes, toosmall or blemished for the market and not spoiled enough for livestock feed,would be loaded into the bed of your father's truck for delivery to church onSunday.  After the services, familieswould crowd around the truck and fill their bags with as many sweet potatoes aspossible, shake your hand, thank you and your family, and for weeks to come,tell you how delicious they were.

Some consider Fresno the heart of agriculture in California,midway of four hundred miles between the metropolises, Los Angeles and SanFrancisco, and hugged by giant Sequoias to the east and the salty-cold Pacificbeaches.  Growing up in a farming family,you used to think you wanted your future to have nothing to do withagriculture.  Sometimes when you aresitting at a desk in a cubicle, staring at a computer screen, you want go back.

Part III

When you finally went back to visit your hometown youcouldn’t help but feel disconnected, and the way things were made less sense toyou than they did when you lived there.

For example: You planned to meet a colleague for coffee at7:30 a.m. at a place across town from where you were staying. As a dedicatedpedestrian you decided you would put what you remembered as an often trampledbus system to use. In your twenties you bicycled the same distance in less thanan hour, and could easily drive it in ten minutes. You figured if you left yourhost’s house by 6:30 a.m., you should make it on time. Good thing you examinedthe bus system’s website the night before. The closest stop operating thatearly in the morning was three miles away, and the schedule’s timetable said itwould take an hour to get across town.

So you got up early and left at 5:15 a.m., jogged the firsthalf of the distance to the bus stop, and walked the rest of the way, gettingthere ten minutes early. You were the first passenger to board the publiclimousine, and as you climbed the red carpet steps you made eye contact andsolemnly exchanged “hellos” with the driver and dropped your exactdollar-twenty-five fare in the mounted mechanical piggy-bank. About ten otherpassengers were collected through the duration of the trip from differentstops, where the driver was presumably ahead of schedule because after thepassengers boarded, he would pull out the sports section of the local rag andread in three to four minute segments before rolling it back up and putting thevessel back in motion. These pauses allowed you to take notice of how peacefulthe town’s main drag seemed at that hour, and how well the sound of fingernailsbeing clipped travels from the back of the bus, and how furious Coltrane canmake the color blue when you finally attached your headphones.

You made it to your stop after a forty minute ride, twentyminutes ahead of schedule, and hiked your final mile to the café and arrived withanother glorious ten minutes to spare! Using this free time you realized thatit didn’t matter that things didn’t make sense to you because you didn’t livethere anymore. Miles Davis left what one might perceive as mistakes on hisrecordings, but you call those moments “personality, soul, human, andbeautiful.”

Your Twitter is to you as my blog is to me, as  her photograph is to her, as his song is tohim, as our painting is to us, as their movie is to them, as its book is to it.

You headed to the train station - on foot, of course - byway of some of the most desolate streets in the city. You always found themdesolate getting to train stations. You and a man gave each other the right ofway while passing on a sidewalk. He was wearing royal blue house-slippers whosecolor seemed exceptionally vibrant in the low angled sun’s morning light. Thebelt for his oversized gym shorts were his two hands, each clutching fistfulsof the synthetic and porous cloth at the base of his crotch. Your eye-contactand “what’s up” head nod made him turn his head away from you toward the otherside of the street, as if something had just then called for his fullattention.

You finally caught up to who you speculated was thebread-winner you had been trailing for a half-mile. He stopped walking at hispublic limousine stop and turned to face perpendicular to the street. He wore ageneric back-pack over one shoulder of his security guard uniform. As youapproached him, you fantasized one of those great, old-fashioned, early morninggreetings you’ve heard legends about. So you encouraged out loud, “goodmorning!” The worker bee made no movement except for his neck as it slowlypivoted his head, allowing his laser beam eyes to penetrate through hissunglasses’ lenses and follow your UV blockers as you continued walking by,willing to wait forever for that exchange.

Two talkative and tattooed ladies jumped into yourfoot-stream. You caught up to them when one stopped to remove a hitchhikingrock from her shoe. A little discouraged, you mumbled, “morning.’” Thenon-archaeologist of the pair quickly responded with a “Good Morning” as clearas you ever heard it in your life! All was right with the world! It was as ifthat reliable and consistent chain café popped up to spare you from having todrink train coffee, and they still sold bran muffins so you could finally getrid of that horrible case of traveler’s gut before you boarded the train withall the other princes and princesses and kings and queens of the valley. Thattrain; for which you would still be ten glorious minutes early!