Ode to a Surfing Blog

My favorite magazine, Oxford American, publishes a special summer issue every year inviting writers to submit their Best of the South stories for publication. The pieces are witty, charming and usually titled "Ode to a ..." (fill in the blank: this year's issue had such titles as "Ode to a Soda Fountain" and "Ode to Screaming." I decided to write my own. I've titled it:

Ode to a Surfing Blog

Words and waves. Waves by words crashing into the computer screen, each word meaning something more than just its original intent. Soaring, sailing words give action to the surf, the rip-tide, the cross current. Riding a curl brings the words back full circle to the origin of the wave ... the idea ... back to when it was just water washing away the sand, lapping up against the shore where kids play in waist-deep water with bright-colored floaties around each arm while being watched by nervous mothers nearby discussing their sons' behaviors in school and listening to seagulls cry, beg for pieces of pb&j sandwiches that could be compared to words in a blog that may or may have meaning to the sunglassed reader who is sitting on the striped Banana Tropic, yellow and orange beach towel. Words, waves remain important to the surfing reader and writer who shares the intensity of loading a bright, yellow and purple surfboard on top of her car, driving to the beach, unloading the board to place it in the wave's ending and swimming, stroke by stroke, out to where waves begin so that, later, she can, stroke by stroke, pull words together to express the exhilaration of riding the wave into the shore where it will start again.

a leaf wave?

This week, I'm on my annual hiking trip. Because of my training for surfing and my continued cycling, I'm probably in better shape for my hikes than I've ever been. I took a little bit of an excursion this year. Instead of only hiking in the Smokies, this year, I visited some friends who are avid hikers and know everything about hiking in the East. My friend and guide, Charles, took me to hike a very, very small portion (six miles total -- three out and back) of the Appalachian Trail. We didn't have a lot of time, so I knew it would be a short hike. That was fine. We went to Roan Mountain trailhead, which is only about 45 minutes from Charles's office. The air temperature was probably about 65 degrees, but with the wind, it felt more like the 50s. The wind is strong in this particular area, similar to the strong winds we often have in Texas. Many parts of the trails are in open field-type/bald areas. Charles explained that it wasn't naturally this way; the Cherokee Indians cleared the area. Many of the fields are filled with Rhododendron and Flaming Azaleas. They were beautiful. We also stumbled upon a rare and endangered flower called Gray's Lily, which is only found in the Appalachians. Charles mentioned that he had never seen one in bloom up close, only pictures even though he had been hiking around there most of his life. It was beautiful; especially blowing in the wind. The entire area was beautiful, and when we stopped on the trail and looked behind us, the grass across the trail was blowing, and I couldn't help but think they looked like waves...tiny green waves. So, although I won't be surfing this week in the water, I'll still be playing in the waves.

'Many years have passed since those summer days
Among the fields of barley
See the children run as the sun goes down
Among the fields of gold
You'll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You can tell the sun in his jealous sky
When we walked in the fields of gold'

Fields of Gold - Sting

p.s. My fields were green, but I still thought of this song. This one's for you, Rob.