Be the good little soldier

I woke up yesterday morning with the bug to get out of the city for a minute. I wanted freedom, fresh air on my face, and land... lots of land. So I called up my Dad at work and told him to put down his tools, he needed to play hookie with his daughter today. Just like the old days, when I would call Jess and beg her to skip class (again) and come with me to the mountain.

Daddy and I spent the better part of the afternoon paddling around Lake Acworth in the canoe, journeying around all the little bends, checking out lilly pads, watching the great blue herons take off in majestic flight. The great blue heron is my favorite bird; just look at the tattoo on my right arm and you'll know! They are such graceful, quiet creatures. There was one in particular that followed us all around the lake, appearing and reappearing, standing on his tall skinny legs, never afraid of our presence, just watching over his land as if he welcomed us like pleasant guests.



I have a special attachment to downtown Acworth. This is where I spent the better memories of my childhood. When Chris and I were very young, Dad lived in a run down apartment complex across from the church yard. Back then, Dad drank a lot and was close enough to dirt poor I'm surprised we weren't homeless. Us children would come wanding back to the apartment near dinner time, and the three of us would gather fishing poles and make our way down to the lake's edge. We'd catch a few fish and bring them back to the apartment patio. This is how I learned to clean a fish. Hit their head a few times to knock them out. One small slice behind the jaw bone. Cut straight down the belly, but not deep, because you didn't want to hit the viens or the blood would contaminate the flesh. Cut all the way to the bowels, then with your thumb in the mouth of the fish, starting at the slit behind its jaw you'd yank down and tear out all the guts. Then run your thumb in the socket of the fish, right along the spine, to clean out the viens.

We would have fresh caught fish and french fries for dinner every night. Or else, if we hadn't made a catch, it was a few cans of sardines mashed up with mayonnaise. If Chris and I were still hungry, which we usually were, we'd sneak across to the church and raid the fridge. We could always count on finding newly baked bread -- the body of Christ! -- to fill our hungry bellies. Sometimes we would even wander to the back of the church, where the nursery rooms were, and play with the church toys. In those days, they never locked the church doors.

A few years later, Dad moved into a house down the street that we called "The Mansion", because it seemed so big to us. In fact, it was a bed and breakfast that belonged to a friend of his. My father was offered a place to stay if he promised to be the care-taker. We rarely had guests come stay, but when we did, us children had to remain upstairs, which was never any fun. Chris and I would climb out the bedroom window and climb the roof scaling to sit on the top of the house. There, we would watch the trains go by.

The house is still there today, and still a functioning bed and breakfast. It's called the "Jessie Lemon."

If, upon my death, I could return to a time in my life to live out eternity, this would be the time I'd choose. Eating crab apples form the tree in the back yard, riding our bikes to the lake, playing in the church when no one was there, sitting on the roof of 'the mansion'...

Yesterday I was excited to snap a photograph of my favorite town, but realized I'd left the camera at home, unfortunately. Maybe next time.

Chris and I, when we were children: