There Ain’t No Grave

Imbolc and the Ovid Moon of Metamorphoses

Thursday gratefuls: Corn beef and cabbage from Easy Entrees. Thanks to Diane and Mary. Cribbage. Quest Labs. Poetry. Southern Gospel Revival. There Ain’t No Grave. Those Golden Bells. Will the Circle Be Unbroken.

Sparks of Joy: Rigel, so strong, recovered from endocarditis. Vaccines.


Something to contemplate. Over March 13-15th we got between two and three inches of Water in our nearly 3 feet of Snow. From a Minnesota perspective in the humid East, not much to notice. But here, in the arid West, where the average precipitation is less than 20 inches? That’s a lot.

We got somewhere between 10 and 15 percent of our annual precipitation over three days. By itself this storm eliminated four to six months of extended drought. Wow.

When I drove to Denver often, to see Joe or the grandkids, I would always make special note of Cozad, Nebraska. The 100th parallel runs through it. John Wesley Powell identified it as the border between the humid East and the arid West.

Back then, 140 years ago, the 100th was probably the location of the divide. Now, though, the line has moved east to the 98th parallel. Almost a mile a year. Enough to move the line about half way between Grand Island and Lincoln.

Another way of measuring climate change. Interesting article.

Realized I took a dive along with Kate when she left our house in the ambulance a little over a week ago. A cumulative affect, I imagine. Then the physical exhaustion. Put me in a dark place for a few days.

Decided I didn’t want to stay there. As Joseph memorably said on returning from a trip to Arizona, “I feel my powers returning.” Shook my head and went another way, into the day, not retreating from it. Worked.

Still tired, which seems to be a common refrain for me, yes, but not down. Working on my Psalm for the final class. Has to contain the following words: cry, mending, holiness, gratitude, celebrate, sound-sense. Each of us offered a word. Since it was last Friday when we did that, my word was cry.

Today, it might have been joy.

1st Grade, Alexandria (I’m second from the left in the front row)


Spent an interesting couple of hours yesterday listening to spirituals, especially from a group called the Southern Gospel Revival. This is my deep soul music. It rings my identity bell. Not about theology, but culture. Southern and Appalachian culture was strong in my childhood.

Alexandria filled up with dislocated hillbillies, all yearning for a move back to the hills. My classmates were the children of those who moved north to work in the car factories. Many of them are back in those hills following the great collapse of the American car industry in the 1970’s.

Something about this music. This one struck me. Found myself singing going down the hill to Easy Entrees to pick up our St. Patrick’s day meal.

This entry was posted in Coronavirus, Dogs, Family, Health, Memories, Mountains, Music, Myth and Story, Shadow Mountain, The West, Third Phase, Travel, US History, Weather +Climate. Bookmark the permalink.

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