A Letter

It is early and I am awake now. I have been for quite some time. I’m alive to see another sunset and watching the sky as it brightens slowly in different shades. The trees here are pretty now. The winds are certainly colder and the warm weather deck furniture that sits on my back porch has retired for the season and will hibernate in my cellar until next spring. I have been hearing the geese fly overhead. I like seeing them fly over in their V-shaped pattern. The fall is certainly here. The scenery changes each day and this suits me just fine

The caretakers of Old Wesley Chapel came by to secure the grounds and cut the grass one final time around the graves in the small cemetery. Old Wesley Chapel is diagonally across the road. I agree thereis oddness to this old place. At least, there used to be when I first saw it. There is also something humbling about and something that rings peacefully to me. There is also history that dates back before the oldest grave, which was placed beside the chapel in 1803. Wesley Chapel was here when our country was first born. This is real history and to me, this history is valuable.
See, I am of the understanding that long before I was here; life was here. Long before I walked through the trails in the mountains around my home; long before there was a place called Spook Rock, which is where I live now, and long before the new style homes went up, before the power-lines draped across the Panther Mountain a short ways behind my the back of my property, before the telephone poles, before the spillage from an overpriced city became what it was, before greed took off and skyrocketed to what it is, and before we became lazy as a country, life happened here.People lived here. They cared for, cultivated, and nurtured this place. This was a time of dignity. I suppose this spirit even above the views I have from my pocket between the mountains is what I love most about my plot of land.
This is not something that can be seen anyplace else. This is American history right outside my door. There was no such thing as Hilary for President or Trump back then. I firmly believe we were less corrupt as a nation. We had our share of problems in our infancy. We made our share of mistakes and there are certain unfortunate and regrettable facts about our country’s history that will never be erased. Yet still, I wonder what the work ethic of the members in my town was like in say, mid-October 1803.

As I write to you, the colors of autumn are more pronounced. The sun is nearly up now. The golden colored leaves outside my window have taken on a soft, beautiful glow in contrast with bark and veins-like branches on the trees. Again, and I am sure you already know; this is my favorite time of day—sunrise at The Kimmel Ranchunnamed-3


The lake down the road from me is beautiful this time of year. On morning’s like this, the water is motionless with a layer of smoke misting from the water’s surface. Beneath the layer of smoke lifting from the water is a semi-distorted, yet soothing and beautiful reflection of the sky. This is a quiet place and set inside the scene of mountain countryside. I used to write about places like this. I used to wish for a view like the I have now and imagine myself on long morning walks, contemplating my next set of prose, and hoping that one day, this trick of mine will pull off and pay me back in full.


We are far from overly populated here. The streets are unnamed-1mostly quiet and the ground is covered with leaves. It is also very green here. And by green, I do not just mean the grass of the trees that have yet to change for the season. No, I mean it is very green here in the sense that this place is fresh. We are away from the disturbance of the city. I am not huddled in closely with other homes, crammed together, and similar as if the builders of each home had a basic model and repeated it over and over again throughout an entire neighborhood.

I have tall pines in front of my home and a few oak trees, which like the land, we here long before me or my family. I have two large boulders situated out back in my yard that slopes downward towards Haverstraw Rd. The side of my property is wooded with trees and bushes where the deer like to rest and hide. unnamed-4
We are secluded here—private and quiet with the red-tail hawks that hang motionless in the sky throughout the day time and peaceful at night with an owl that hoots from somewhere in the tall pines around us.

I have heard stories that Washington was around this part of my neighborhood. Quite possibly, Washington himself walked through the doors of Old Wesley Chapel, which remains as it was, kept in the same condition and complete with an outhouse on the side. There is no plumbing in the chapel because there was no plumbing when the chapel was built. As far as I know there are no services, with the exception of one each year. I missed this year’s service but so long as I stay the course, I will still be here at my place on Spook Rock to enjoy the next one.

You may be wondering why I am telling this.
Here’s why . . .

I spent much of my life, repeating the same actions while expecting different results. I wasted too many years trying to force myself to fit in places where I didn’t belong. I am writing you to remind myself of the encouragement you used to give me. I am writing about my home and my surrounding to remind myself that once, you told me, “I believe in you, son”

This is my first autumn here in my little chalet on Spook Rock. It’s really nice here, Mom. It’s like no place I’ve ever seen before. I wish you were here to see it . . .

Anyways, I miss you Mom. I’m going to head out for a walk around the pond up the street. If this message reaches you in time, maybe you can meet me there somehow. I could show you where the deer play. Besides, it would be nice to have your company on my walk.

Love always, your son




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