She's Leaving Home by Nannette Croce

My daughter graduated college this year, and now she's getting ready to move down to North Carolina where a friend's parents are letting them rent their townhouse cheap. Right now she doesn't have a job lined up, but thanks to her grandparents––planners that they are––we have about six month's worth of rent left in her college account we're sending her down there with. Some friends think we're being overly generous, but it was that or have her live home until she thought she could afford to leave.

Not that it's been so bad having her here. She is, in fact, much more pleasant to live with than before she left for school, but that decision of when you are ready to take the step to move out on your own and support yourself is a tough one. I'd rather she keep the momentum from college and just keep going. The incentive not to have to come home will be much greater once she's out there than the incentive would have been to leave once she got comfortable in her old home.

I'm grateful to my parents for allowing us to give our daughter this start, and I'm grateful to her friend's parents for giving her and her roommate this break. Life on your own can be tough, but I believe that the sooner she gets started, the farther she'll go.

Water Sounds by Kathryn Magendie

There are signs of spring on the mountain, and I’ve opened the windows and the front door to let in a brisk breeze. Green shoots are peeking, buds on trees; tiny awakenings. But what I notice most on my mountain walk is the water. Our creek is again singing louder, rushing wildly down to find the bigger creek to find the lake to find the ocean. Our creek has been ill lately, because of the drought in North Carolina.

It isn’t just the creek sounds that excite me, although I can now hear it even when my windows and doors are closed, just as I used to be able to. There are more water signs I’d forgotten about, one of which is along the road we walk in a shallow ditch where rainwater run-off flows. I’d forgotten water ran there, since it has been dry for so long. But there it is, clear and clean and cold. Kayla drinks from it, just as she used to. Jake watches it gurgle with his head cocked to one side, just as he used to.

I want to reach down and cup my hands, catch some of the mountain water, and splash it to my face—not yet; it’s still a bit too chilly for that, however, that day will come as the days grow warmer. If, and oh please let it be so, the drought continues to wane, the rains will come to our mountains and valleys and farms and yards, and into creeks streams rivers, all that feed into the ocean, all are connected, all are brother and sister, all will be replenished, fed, watered.

Back in my home, I stop what I'm doing and listen. The wind blows hard, setting the chimes to ringing, the branches to rubbing, the birds tittering, but beyond that I hear the roar of the creek and it is music music. I feel an affinity for all nature. A love that holds no grudges or boundaries, but oftentimes a hope when nature seems cruel. Nature does as it will without emotion; nature is what it is and to personify it is a disservice. There is only the way of the Earth, and today, I am grateful for its way, its voice, its song, its nurturing, its rain that brought my creek and rushing water back to the mountain—almost just as it was before the drought, almost, but still good…good.

Mother Earth, Father Sky by Kathryn Magendie

Dark clouds hovered over the distant Smoky Mountains. I stood on the porch, unable to take my eyes from the site of mountain, thundercloud, mist. As night descended, so did the storm—a furious slamming of wind and water against the roof and windows. Bedtime brought a dreamy smile before sleep. Several times during the night, I awoke to hear pummeling rain and snuggled deeper into my comfort.

Morning arrives, the storm has passed and Sun is rising to hide Moon—only Grandmother Moon and Grandfather Sun can match Mountain in bold dignity. As I head to the coffee pot for a cup of Deep Creek Blend, something calls, a familiar sound I can’t quite place. I sip coffee and go to the window facing our porch, which looks to the ridge across the cove, and over to those distant mountains. I cock my head to listen.

When I open the front door, there it is. There is the sound I have missed over these months, the one that had been muffled. The wild wild rush of the creek as it falls over and upon itself, as it tumbles down to the bottom of the mountain to spill into the larger creek, which spills into the river, which spills into the ocean. With winter’s bony branches revealing, I can see the boiling white water, the clear pools. Creek sounds roar mighty. Creek is gorged with rainwater!

North Carolina, like some of our sister states, has been in a drought. I watched the news as Atlanta officials prayed for water. I think how Mother Earth will provide; Father Sky will provide, as they see fit, as they are able. I know sometimes our own actions cause change, and I know as well that Earth will change on her own. I did not pray for rain, I waited for it. The waiting did not disappoint. Father Sky gave the rain and Mother Earth fed her creek. Thank you Mother Earth and Father Sky. In this year of gratitude, I will watch; I will wait for your gifts. In return, I will protect; I will appreciate.