Tonight will be the coolest night

Tonight will be the coolest night

Tonight will be the coolest night we've had yet this fall;
Supposed to get down to 42°.
Most of the leaves are still green
but some have changed
in the last few days.
Temperatures tonight will help them along their journey.

I loved it when I took Springer out earlier and
the full moon was creeping
higher above Big Cedar Mountain.
The thick aroma of fallen leaves and
their crispy crunch underfoot
carried my senses to a wonderful place
where my mind was willing to dwell,
if only momentarily.

Pine needles twinkled in the breeze across the face of the moon
while I stood in the wood waiting for Springer.
It was time to take him to his fence and
get back in and
call Mama and Daddy.

I wanted to share those moments with you,
so here's the best
I can do.

Lines composed by Harry Williamson upon walking his dog Springer on a cool North Carolina fall evening in 2005.

some day . . .

From time to time Harry’s office would receive a set of safety posters to be placed on bulletin boards throughout the plant. Things like “Avoid headaches - Wear that helmet,” or “See better longer by wearing eye protection today.” The posters came from a subscription service that would send a half dozen at a time.

On one occasion in the early Seventies, a packet arrived which included a poster Harry would not put up in the plant and so gave it to me. I had it on my dorm wall more than once, in many apartments, in a couple of offices, and now on the side of a filing cabinet in the garage. Each environment in which it has been displayed it was visible only to those who would not take it seriously. I keep it as an artifact of an era of extreme intolerance. Its language is too inflammatory to let loose. That’s why Harry would not post it in the plant, especially in that highest point of the Hard Hat.

Harry had hopes for a some day, as do I. Just one more reason I loved my brother.


Some day, Hopefully Soon

Some day it will again be popular to praise the United States and the things for which it stands.

Some day the people will be heard when they express the fact they are fed up with the slurs at home and abroad which challenge our goals and intentions.

Some day we will tire of the sedition that some call “free speech,” especially from the young
“scholars” who think they possess more knowledge that all the rest of us.

Some day our tolerance point will be reached on the streets where criminal actions are too often allowed to erupt in the name of freedom

Some day we will refuse to stand for the insults to our God by those pretending to start their
own narcotics-inspired religions.

Some day smut filth, dirt and oddball behavior will be condemned rather than condoned.

Some day we will stop knocking capitalism, which has given us individually and collectively the best ever offered human beings.

Some day we will take better care of our natural resources instead of squandering them on sociological slop.

Some day Americans will stop pretending they can never believe their elected officials.

Some day we’ll demand that crime be punished as it should be, so we can walk all our streets in safety, day or night,

Some day we will demand that our hard earned dollars not be given to support those who will not work for themselves.

Some day, in short, Americans will insist that we stop drifting and listening to those whose mental and moral standards are less than we demand of those who want to call themselves citizens of our country. Then we can return to the principles which have made the United States strong.

Some day had better come pretty soon to preserve the America we love.

Some day. . .

a bell tolls

on the last day of the calendar
we pause to remember
those who were here
in plain sight
but are no more
having faded since this calendar was new.

It is as John Donne mediated:
No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

and while I embrace the magnitude of
the Reverend Donne's meditation
and the whole-world one-world ideal,
and that I may be diminished by all who fade,
this year will forever be the year
a particular fading diminished me
more than all the others
when the bell tolled for my brother

Harvest Moon from Busbee Mountain

traveling a country road

Three Pines Ten Acres

All that is required

Wherewith shall I come before the Lord,
and bow myself before the high God?
shall I come before him with burnt offerings,
with calves of a year old?

Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams,
or with ten thousands of rivers of oil?
shall I give my firstborn for my transgression,
the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?

He hath shewed thee, O man, what is good;
and what doth the Lord require of thee,
but to do justly,
and to love mercy,
and to walk humbly
with thy God?

(Micah 6:6-8)

Retreat

waking in my bed
dawn light fades the setting moon
one more day to rest

Selma soil

hands grasped, tight, gentle,
soft eyes smile, soft voices speak
tenderly, fondly.

cousins and aunts, uncles, friends
gather close, family.

dust and dirt join dust and dirt
beside your fathers

Homegoing

predawn lunar light
lights an empty road. away
from your steep yarden,
another gathering waits
more who miss your laugh

Harry

Harry Gilma Williamson died at home in Asheville, North Carolina, on Sept. 8, 2008 after a five year journey with a rare gastrointestinal cancer.

Born in Dothan, Alabama on Aug. 9, 1946, he was the son of Walter Gilma and Elizabeth Kelley Williamson. His family moved to N.C. when he was twelve. He graduated from Southern Alamance High School in 1964 and moved to Buie’s Creek, N.C. where he earned a bachelor’s degree in Religion and Philosophy from Campbell College.

For 22 years he was employed by Burlington Industries as a Human Resource Manager in a number of textile plants throughout Virginia and North Carolina, ending with his assignment to reopen the Asheville Plant in 1987. He was a champion of the wage employees in each facility and helped many workers in their efforts to further their educations, optimize benefits and gain promotions in their respective departments.

When the Asheville Plant closed in 1992, he chose to leave the corporate world and pursue his love of gardening by returning to college for a horticultural degree. Afterwards he accepted a position as a landscape gardener with the Biltmore Estate in 1994. He enjoyed his work there, focusing on the Approach Road design and maintenance, for 10 years.

Harry was a true Southern Alabama gentle-man, polite and kind in all his dealings. He loved his family and home above all else. He felt no need to travel in search of peace or fulfillment, but found both in abundance at home in his 2 acre “yarden” where he practiced his craft as both naturalist and horticulturist.

His college study and childhood upbringing gave him great familiarity with Biblical teachings. Other philosophical heroes were Joseph Campbell, Paul Tillich, Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Freidrich Nietzsche. He was active in various churches wherever he lived, and joined the Unitarian Universalist Church after moving to Asheville.

Harry was the family photographer and enjoyed capturing informal human portraits and nature subjects immensely. For twenty years he documented the sunrise and moon cycle in every season over Little Cedar Mountain from his front porch. Music was also a great joy in his life and his tastes were wide-ranging. He appreciated equally the work of Jimmie Rogers and the symphonies of Beethoven and the wood thrush. His favorite sound of all was the happy voices of his four children.

He is survived by his parents, Walter Gilma and Mary Elizabeth Kelley Williamson of Dothan, and his soul mate and wife of 25 years, Nancy Hodges Williamson of Asheville.

Harry’s paternal grandparents were M.W. and Velma Williamson and his maternal grandparents were Floyed and Pennie Mullins Kelley, both of long-time Wiregrass families. Other survivors include his children, Melody Williamson of Jersey City, N.J.; Meri Christi Craft and her husband Mike and grandson Raine Craft of Mebane, N.C.; Mark Williamson of Raleigh, N.C. and William Hodges Williamson of Asheville. He is also survived by his brother, Ronald Walter Williamson and family of DeLand, Florida; brother Paul Kelley Williamson and family of St. Augustine, Florida, and several beloved nieces, nephews and grandnieces, uncles, aunts and cousins.

Memorial contributions in lieu of flowers may be made to Friends of the Blue
Ridge Parkway - P.O. Box 20986, Roanoke, VA 24018, BSA Troop 5 - 61 Hickory Tree Rd., Asheville, NC 28805, or the UU Church of Asheville - 1 EdwinPlace, Asheville, NC 28801.

The Memorial Service for Harry was held at 1 p.m. Saturday, Sept. 13, at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Asheville. The graveside service was held at Selma Baptist Church in Dothan at 11 a.m. Monday, Sept. 15.

Ascent

from the low country
gently rising and falling and rising across the Piedmont
across the Catawba, twice,
up the mountain, across the divide and onto the plateau
beside the French Broad and Swannanoa,
pass Little Cedar and up Busbee’s toe,
up the stairs, into your room
where it was too quiet,
too empty.

the eye-kor-a-dor

the journey is new to me,
to a place I have not been,
yet the first few miles from home
are familiar,
are often traveled,
but this route reaches beyond the familiar
to a place I have not been.

and the black, rain wet asphalt
ribbons around urban and slices the rural
and crosses the rivers where
darkness envelopes the marsh
and with each mile in my past
the mysteries of my journey grows.

a stretch of road traveled by all,
a singular journey common to all,
with each step
new each time.

amarcord

much I remember;
much I reach to recall.

some replayed often;
some I had forgot until now.

each and every one
draws its own deep breath,
and will live on after
we do not

Making arrangements

chairs, tent, depth of grave,
the songs to be sung, the prayers
and those who pray them

getting news

holding a space for the news,
knowing it will come, just not when.
then when it comes
the news does not fill the space,
the news is of the space,
that there is now....a space

what ever there is to see
you saw at 20:20

my brother's workbench

remnants of tasks past,
tools at attention, ready,
a retreat from work

barn guard

Hobo Monitors

simple morning light
shadows earthen pots, worn gloves,
watchful eyes protect